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By  Leslie  Moore 


The  Peacock  Feather 

The  Jester 

The  Wiser  Folly 


Antony  Gray,— Gardener 


BY 

LESLIE  MOORE 

AUTHOK.    OF    "  THE   PEACOCK     FEATHER,"    "  THE    JESTER,'*    "  THE 
WISER   FOLLY,"   ETC. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

XCbc  "Rnicfterbocfter  press 
1917 


COPTRIGHT,    191  r 
BT 

LESLIE  MOORS 


Ube  ftniclEetbocIsec  ficess,  flew  l?otft 


MRS.  BARTON 


2137275 


CONTENTS 

Prologue 

PAGB 
I 

CHAPTBB 
I.- 

—The  Letter 

17 

II.- 

-Memories 

24 

III.- 

—Quod  Scriptum  est  . 

31 

IV.- 

—The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Book 

38 

V.- 

—A  Friendship   . 

44 

VI.- 

—At  Teneriffe  . 

52 

VII.- 

-England  .... 

64 

VIII.- 

-The  Amazing  Conditions 

70 

IX.- 

-The  Decision  .         .         .         , 

79 

X.- 

—An  English  Cottage 

86 

XI.- 

-Doubts      .... 

98 

XII.- 

-Concerning  Michael  Field 

102 

XIII.- 

-A  Discovery     . 

109 

XIV.- 

-Honor  Vincit  .         .         .         . 

117 

iv  Contents 


CHAPTBK  PAGS 

XV. — ^In  the  Garden         .        .         .123 


XVI. — A  Meeting 
XVII. — At  the  Manor  House 
XVIII. — A  Dream  and  Other  Things 
XIX. — Trix  on  the  Scene  . 
XX. — Moonlight  and  Theories 
XXI. — On  the  Moorland    . 
XXII. — An  Old  Man  in  a  Library 
XXIII. — Antony  Finds  a  Glove     . 
XXIV. — An  Interest  in  Life 
XXV.— Prickles  .... 
XXVI. — An  Offer  and  a  Refusal 


XXVII. — Letters   and   Mrs.  Arbuthnot    237 


XXVIII.— For  the  Day  Alone 
XXIX. — In  the  Church  Porch 
XXX. — A  Question  of  Importance 
XXXI. — Midnight  Reflections 
XXXII. — Sunlight  and  Happiness  . 
XXXIII.— Trix  Seeks  Advice 
XXXIV. — An  Amazing  Suggestion  . 


132 
139 
149 
161 

168 

183 
192 
201 
206 
212 
227 


256 
260 
277 
284 
290 
294 
302 


Contents 


PAGB 


CHAPTER 

XXXV.— Trix  Triumphant      .        .        .312 

XXXVI.— An  Old  Man  Tells  his  Story   .  319 

XXXVII.— The  Importance  of  Trifles     .  330 

XXXVIII. — A  Footstep  on  the  Path          .  334 

XXXIX. — On  the  Old  Foundation  .        •  341 

Epilogue. 347 


Antony  Gray,— Gardener 


PROLOGUE 

March  had  come  in  like  a  lion,  raging,  tiirbulent. 
Throughout  the  day  the  wind  had  torn  spitefully 
at  the  yet  bare  branches  of  the  great  elms  in  the 
park;  it  had  rushed  in  insensate  fury  round  the 
walls  of  the  big  grey  house ;  it  had  driven  the  rain 
lashing  against  the  windows.  It  had  sent  the 
few  remaining  leaves  of  the  old  year  scudding  up 
the  drive;  it  had  littered  the  lawns  with  fragments 
of  broken  twigs;  it  had  beaten  yellow  and  purple 
crocuses  prostrate  to  the  brown  earth. 

Against  the  distant  rocky  coast  the  sea  had 
boomed  Hke  the  muffled  thunder  of  guns;  it  had 
flung  itself  upon  the  beach,  dragging  the  stones 
back  with  it  in  each  receding  wave,  their  grinding 
adding  to  the  crash  of  the  waters.  Nature  had 
been  in  her  wildest  mood,  a  thing  of  mad  fury. 

With  simdown  a  calm  had  fallen.  The  wind, 
tired  of  its  onslaught,  had  sunk  suddenly  to  rest. 
Only  the  sea  beat  and  moaned  sullenly  against  the 


8  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

cliffs,  as  if  unwilling  to  subdue  its  anger.  Yet, 
for  all  that,  a  note  of  fatigue  had  entered  its 
voice. 

An  old  man  was  sitting  in  the  library  of  the  big 
grey  house.  A  shaded  reading  lamp  stood  on  a 
small  table  near  his  elbow.  The  light  was  thrown 
upon  an  open  book  lying  near  it,  and  on  the  carved 
arms  of  the  oak  chair  in  which  the  man  was  sitting. 
It  shone  clearly  on  his  bloodless  old  hands,  on  his 
parchment-like  face,  and  white  hair.  A  log  fire 
was  burning  in  a  great  open  hearth  on  his  right. 
Por  the  rest,  the  room  was  a  place  of  shadows, 
deepening  to  gloom  in  the  distant  comers,  a  gloom 
emphasized  by  the  one  small  circle  of  brilliant  light, 
and  the  red  glow  of  the  fire.  Bookcases  reached 
from  floor  to  ceiling  the  whole  length  of  two  walls, 
and  between  the  three  thickly  curtained  windows 
of  the  third.  In  the  fourth  wall  were  the  fireplace 
and  the  door. 

There  was  no  sound  to  break  the  silence.  The 
figiue  in  the  oak  chair  sat  motionless.  He  might 
have  been  carved  out  of  stone,  for  any  sign  of  life 
hie  gave.  He  looked  Hke  stone, — ^white  and  black 
marble  very  finely  sculptured, — ^white  marble  in 
liead  and  hands,  black  marble  in  the  piercing  eyes, 
the  long  satin  dressing-gown,  the  oak  of  the  big 
chair.  Even  his  eyes  seemed  stone-like,  motion- 
less, and  fixed  thoughtfully  on  space. 

To  those  perceptive  of  "atmosphere"  there  is 
a  subtle  difference  in  silence.     There  is  the  silence 


PROLOGUE  3 

of  woods,  the  silence  of  plains,  the  silence  of  death, 
the  silence  of  sleep,  and  the  silence  of  wakefulness. 
This  silence  was  the  last  named.  It  was  a  silence 
alert,  aHve,  yet  very  still. 

A  slight  movement  in  the  room,  so  slight  as  to 
be  almost  imperceptible,  roused  him  to  the  present. 
Life  sprang  to  his  eyes,  puzzled,  questioning;  his 
body  motionless,  they  turned  towards  the  middle 
window  of  the  three,  from  whence  the  movement 
appeared  to  have  come.  It  was  not  repeated. 
The  old  utter  silence  lay  upon  the  place; 
yet  Nicholas  Danver  kept  his  eyes  upon  the 
curtain. 

The  minutes  passed.  Then  once  more  came 
that  almost  imperceptible  movement. 

Nicholas  Danver's  well-bred  old  voice  broke 
the  silence. 

"Why  not  come  into  the  room?"  it  suggested 
quietly.  There  was  a  gleam  of  ironical  humour 
in  his  eyes. 

The  curtains  swung  apart,  and  a  man  came  from 
between  them.  He  stood  blinking  towards  the 
light. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  there,  sir?"  came  the 
gruff  inquiry. 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Nicholas,  accurately 
truthful.     "  I  merely  guessed. " 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Well?  "  said  Nicholas  watching  the  man  keenly. 
"By  the  way,  I  suppose  you  know  I  am  entirely 
at  your  mercy.     I  could  ring  this  bell,"  he  indi- 


4  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

cated  an  electric  button  attached  to  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  "but  I  suppose  it  would  be  at  least  three 
minutes  before  any  one  came.  Yes,"  he  con- 
tinued thoughtfully,  "allowing  for  the  distance 
from  the  servants'  quarters,  I  should  say  it  would 
be  at  least  three  minutes.  You  could  get  through 
a  fair  amount  of  business  in  three  minutes.  Was  it 
the  candlesticks  you  wanted?"  He  looked  to- 
wards a  pair  of  soHd  silver  candlesticks  on  the 
mantelpiece.  "They  are  cumbersome,  you  know. 
Or  the  miniatures?  There  are  three  Cosways 
and  four  Engleharts.  I  should  recommend  the 
miniatures. " 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  said  the  man  bluntly. 

"Indeed!"  Nicholas's  white  eyebrows  rose  the 
fraction  of  an  inch  above  his  keen  old  eyes.  "An 
imusual  hour  for  a  visit,  and — an  unusual  entrance, 
if  I  might  make  the  suggestion.  " 

"  There' d  never  have  been  a  chance  of  seeing  you 
if  I  had  come  any  other  way. "  There  was  a  hint 
of  bitterness  in  the  words. 

Nicholas  looked  straight  at  him. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Job  Grantley, "  was  the  reply.  "I  live  down 
by  the  Lower  Acre. " 

"Ah!    One  of  my  tenants. " 

"Yes,  sir,  one  of  your  tenants. " 

"And — ?"  suggested  Nicholas  urbanely. 

"I'm  to  turn  out  of  my  cottage  to-morrow," 
said  the  man  briefly. 

"Indeed!"      The    pupils    of    Nicholas's    eyes 


PROLOGUE  5 

contracted.  "May  I  ask  why  that  information 
should  be  of  interest  to  me?" 

"It's  of  no  interest  to  you,  sir,  and  we  know  it. 
You  never  hear  a  word  of  what  happens  outside 
this  house." 

"Mr.  Spencer  Curtis  conducts  my  business," 
said  Nicholas  politely. 

"We  know  that  too,  sir,  and  we  know  the  way  it 
is  conducted.  It's  an  iron  hand,  and  a  heart  like 
flint.     It's  pay  or  go,  and  not  an  hour's  grace. " 

"You  can  hardly  expect  him  to  give  you  my 
cottages  rent  free,"  suggested  Nicholas  suavely. 

The  man  winced. 

"No,  sir.  But  where  a  few  weeks  would'make 
all  the  difference  to  a  man,  where  it's  a  matter  of 
a  few  shillings  standing  between  home  and  the 
roadside — "  he  broke  off. 

Nicholas  was  silent. 

"I  thought  perhaps  a  word  to  you,  sir, "  went  on 
the  man  half  wistfully.  "We're  to  go  to-morrow 
if  I  can't  pay,  and  I  can't.  A  couple  of  weeks 
might  have  made  all  the  difference.  It  was  for  the 
wife  I  came,  sneaking  up  here  like  a  thief.  She's 
lost  two  little  ones;  they  never  but  opened  their 
eyes  on  the  world  to  shut  them  again.  I'm  glad 
on  it  now.  But  women  aren't  made  that  way. 
There's  another  coming.  She's  not  strong.  I 
doubt  but  the  shock'U  not  take  her  and  the  little 
one  too.  Better  for  them  both  if  it  does.  A  man 
can  face  odds,  and  remake  his  life  if  he  is  a  man — " 
he  stopped. 


6  ANTONY  GR/iY,-CARDENER 

Still  there  was  silence. 

"I  was  a  fool  to  come,"  said  the  man  drearily. 
*"Twas  the  weather  did  it  in  the  end.  I'd  gone 
mad-like  Ustening  to  the  wind  and  rain,  and  think- 
ing of  her  and  the  child  that  was  to  be — "  again 
he  stopped. 

Nicholas  was  watching  him  from  under  the  pent- 
house of  his  eyebrows.     Suddenly  he  spoke. 

"How  soon  could  you  pay  your  rent?"  he 
demanded. 

"In  a  fortnight  most  Hke,  sir.  Three  weeks  for 
certain." 

"Have  you  told  Mr.  Curtis  that?" 

"I  have,  sir.  But  it's  the  tick  of  time,  or  out 
you  go. " 

"Have  you  ever  been  behindhand  before?" 

"No,  sir." 

"How  has  it  happened  now?"  The  questions 
came  short,  incisive. 

The  man  flushed. 

"How  has  it  happened  how?"  repeated  Nicholas 
distinctly. 

"I  lent  a  bit,  sir." 

"To  whom?" 

"Widow  Thisby.     She's  an  old  woman,  sir." 

"Tell  me  the  whole  story,"  said  Nicholas 
curtly. 

Again  the  flush  rose  to  the  man's  face. 

"Her  son  got  into  a  bit  of  trouble,  sir.  It  was 
a  matter  of  a  sovereign  or  going  to  gaol.  He's  only 
a  youngster,  and  the  prison  smell  sticks.     Trust 


PROLOGUE  7 

folk  for  nosing  it  out.  He's  got  a  chance  now,  and 
will  be  sending  his  mother  a  trifle  presently. " 

"Then  I  suppose  she'll  repay  you?" 

Job  fidgeted  with  his  cap. 

"Well,  sir,  I  don't  suppose  it'll  be  more'n  a 
trifle  he'll  send;  and  she's  got  her  work  cut  out 
to  make  both  ends  meet. " 

"Then  I  suppose  you  gave  her  the  money?" 

Job  shifted  his  feet  uneasily. 

"How  did  you  intend  to  raise  the  money  due  for 
your  rent,  then?"  demanded  Nicholas  less  curtly. 

Job  left  oflE  fidgeting.  He  felt  on  safer  ground 
here. 

"It  just  meant  a  bit  extra  saved  from  each 
week, "  he  said  eagerly.  "You  can  do  it  if  you've 
time.  Boiling  water  poured  into  the  morning  tea- 
pot for  evenings,  and  knock  off  your  bit  of  bacon, 
and — well,  there's  lots  of  ways,  sir,  and  women  is 
wonderful  folk  for  managing,  the  best  ones. 
Where  it's  thought  and  trouble  they'll  do  it,  and 
they'd  be  using  strength  too  if  they'd  got  it,  but 
some  of  them  hasn't." 

"  Hmm, "  said  Nicholas.  He  put  up  his  hand  to 
his  mouth.  "  So  you  gave  money  you  knew  would 
never  be  repaid,  knowing,  too,  that  it  meant  pos- 
sible homelessness. " 

"You'd  have  done  it  yourself  if  you'd  been  in 
my  place, "  said  the  man  bluntly. 

"Should  I?"  said  Nicholas  half  ironicaUy.  "I 
very  much  doubt  it.  Also  what  right  had  you  to 
gamble  with  your  wife's  happiness?    You  knew 


8  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

the  risk  you  ran.  You  knew  the — er,  the  rule 
regarding  the  rents.  Job  Grantley,  you  were  a 
fool." 

Again  the  colour  rushed  to  the  man's  face. 

"May  be,  sir.  I'll  allow  it  sounds  foohshness, 
but — oh  Lord,  sir,  where's  the  use  o'  back-thinking 
now.  I  reckon  you'd  never  do  a  hand's  turn  for 
nobody  if  you  spent  your  time  looking  backward 
and  forrard  at  your  jobs."  He  stopped,  his  chin 
quivering. 

"Job  Grantley,  you  were  a  fool."  Nicholas 
repeated  the  words  with  even  deHberation. 

The  man  moved  silently  towards  the  window. 
There  was  a  clumsy  dignity  about  his  figure. 

"Stop,"  said  Nicholas.  "Job  Grantley,  you 
are  a  fool." 

The  man  turned  round. 

"Go  to  that  drawer,"  ordered  Nicholas,  "and 
bring  me  a  pocket-book  you  will  find  there. " 

Mechanically  the  man  did  as  he  was  bidden. 
Nicholas  took  the  book. 

"Now  then,"  he  said  opening  it,  "how  much 
will  put  you  right?" 

The  man  stared. 

"I— oh,  sir." 

"How  much  will  put  you  right?"  demanded 
Nicholas. 

"A  pound,  sir.  The  month's  rent  is  due 
to-morrow." 

Nicholas  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Humph.     Not  much  to  stand  between  you 


PROLOGUE  9 

and — hell.  I've  no  doubt  you  did  consider  it 
hell.  We  each  have  our  own  interpretation  of  that 
cheerful  abode." 

He  turned  the  papers  carefully. 

"Now  look  here,"  he  said  suddenly,  "there's 
five  pounds.     It's  for  yourselves,  mind.     No  more 
indiscriminate  bestowal  of  charity,  you  understand,  i 
You  begin  your  charity  at  home.     Do  you  follow, 
me?" 

The  man  took  the  money  in  a  dazed  fashion. 
He  was  more  than  half  bewildered  at  the  sudden 
turn  in  events. 

"  I'll  repay  you  faithfully,  sir.     I'll " 

"Damn  you,"  broke  in  Nicholas  softly,  "who' 
talked  about  repayment?  Can't  I  make  a  present 
as  well  as  you,  if  I  Hke?  Besides  I  owe  you 
something  for  this  ten  minutes.  They  have  been 
interesting.  I  don't  get  too  many  excitements. 
That'll  do.  I  don't  want  any  thanks.  Be  off 
with  you.  Better  go  by  the  window.  There 
might  be  a  need  of  explanations  if  you  tried  a  more 
conventional  mode  of  exit  now.  That'll  do,  that'll 
do.     Go,  man." 

Two  minutes  later  Nicholas  was  looking  again 
towards  the  curtains  behind  which  Job  Grantley 
had  vanished. 

"Now,  was  I  the  greater  fool?"  he  said  aloud. 
There  was  an  odd,  mocking  expression  in  his  eyes. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  pressed  the  electric  button 
attached  to  the  arm  of  his  chair.     His  eyes  were 


10  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

on  his  watch  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  As 
the  Hbrary  door  opened,  he  replaced  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"Right  to  the  second,"  he  laughed.  "Ah, 
Jessop." 

The  man  who  entered  was  about  fifty  years  of 
age,  or  thereabouts,  grey-haired,  clean-shaven. 
His  face  was  cast  in  the  rigid  lines  pecuHar  to  his 
calling.  Possibly  they  relaxed  when  with  his  own 
kind,  but  one  could  not  feel  certain  of  the  fact. 

"Ah,  Jessop,  do  you  know  Job  Grantley  by 
sight.?" 

I  For  one  brief  second  Jessop  stared,  amazement 
fallen  upon  him.  Then  the  mask  of  impene- 
trability was  on  again. 

"Job  Grantley,  yes,  sir." 

"WhatisheHke?" 

"TalHsh  man,  sir;  wears  corduroys.  Dark 
hair  and  eyes;  looks  straight  at  you,  sir. " 

"  Hmm.  Very  good.  Perhaps  I  wasn't  a  fool, " 
he  was  thinking. 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Curtis?"  he  demanded. 

* '  Yes,  sir. '  *     This  came  very  shortly. 

"Should  you  call  him — er,  a  hard  man?"  asked 
Nicholas  smoothly. 

Again  amazement  fell  on  Jessop's  soul,  revealing 
itself  momentarily  in  his  features.  And  again  the 
amazement  was  concealed. 

"He's  a  good  business  man,  sir,"  came  the 
cautious  reply. 

"You  mean — ?"  suggested  Nicholas. 


PROLOGUE  II 

"A  good  business  man  isn't  ordinarily  what 
you'd  call  tender-like,"  said  Jessop  grimly. 

Nicholas  flashed  a  glance  of  amusement  at 
him. 

"I  suppose  not,"  he  replied  dryly. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Do  the  tenants  ever  ask  to  see  me?"  demanded 
Nicholas. 

"They  used  to,  sir.    Now  they  save  their  shoe- ' 
leather  coming  up  the  drive. " 

"Ah,  you  told  them—  ? " 

"Your  orders,  sir.     You  saw  no  one." 

"  I  see. "     Nicholas's  fingers  were  beating  a  Kght 
tattoo  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.     "Well,  those  are. 
my  orders.    That  will  do.    You  needn't  come, 
again  till  I  ring. " 

Jessop  turned  towards  the  door. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way, "  Nicholas's  voice  arrested  him 
on  the  threshold,  "I  fancy  the  middle  window  is 
imlatched. " 

Jessop  returned  and  went  behind  the  curtains. 

"It  was,  wasn't  it?"  asked  Nicholas  as  he 
emerged. 

"Yes,  sir." 

Jessop  left  the  room. 

"Now  how  on  earth  did  he  know  that?"  he 
queried  as  he  walked  across  the  hall. 

The  curtains  had  been  drawn  when  Nicholas  had 
been  carried  into  the  room.  The  knowledge,  for  a 
man  tmable  to  move  from  his  chair,  seemed  little 
short  of  imcanny. 


12  ANTONY  GRAY,-— GARDENER 

"A  man  can  face  odds  if  he  is  a  man,  and  remake 
his  life." 

The  words  repeated  themselves  in  Nicholas's 
brain.  Each  syllable  was  Hke  the  incisive  tap 
of  a  hammer.  They  fell  on  a  wound  lately 
dealt. 

A  little  scene,  barely  ten  days  old,  reconstructed 
itself  in  his  memory.  The  stage  was  the  one  he 
now  occupied;  the  position  the  same.  But  an- 
other actor  was  present,  a  big  rugged  man,  clad 
in  a  shabby  overcoat, — a  man  with  keen  eyes, 
a  grim  mouth,  and  flexible  sensitive  hands. 

"I  regret  to  tell  you  that,  humanly  speaking, 
you  have  no  more  than  a  year  to  live. " 

[The  man  had  looked  past  him  as  he  spoke  the 
words.  He  had  had  his  back  to  the  light,  but 
Nicholas  had  seen  something  almost  inscrutable 
in  his  expression. 

Nicholas's  voice  had  followed  close  upon  the 
words,  politely  ironical. 

"Personally  I  should  have  considered  it  a 
matter  for  congratulation  rather  than  regret," 
he  had  suggested. 

There  had  been  the  fraction  of  a  pause.  Then 
the  man's  voice  had  broken  the  silence. 

"Do  you?" 

"  I  do.  What  has  my  life  been  for  fifteen  years?  '* 
Nicholas  had  demanded. 

"What  you  have  made  of  it,"  had  been  the 
answer. 

"What  God  or  the  devil  has  made  of  it,  aided 


PROLOGUE  13 

by  Baccarat — poor  beast, "  Nicholas  had  retorted 
savagely. 

"The  devil,  possibly,"  the  man  had  replied, 
"but  aided  and  abetted  by  yourself." 

"Confound  you,  what  are  you  talking  about?**, 
Nicholas  had  cried. 

The  man  had  still  looked  towards  the  bookcases. 

"Listen,"  he  had  said.  "For  fifteen  years  you 
have  lived  the  Hfe  of  a  recluse — a  useless  recluse, 
mind  you.  And  why?  Because  of  pride, — sheer 
pride.  Those  who  had  known  you  in  the  strength 
of  your  manhood,  those  who  had  known  you  as 
Nick  the  dare-devil,  should  never  see  the  broken 
cripple.  Pride  forbade  it.  You  preferred  to  run 
to  cover,  to  lie  hidden  there  like  a  wounded  beast, 
rather  than  face,  like  a  man,  the  odds  that  were 
against  you, — heavy  odds,  I'll  allow." 

Nicholas's  eyes  had  blazed. 

"How  dare  you!"  he  had  shouted. 

"You've  a  year  left,"  went  on  the  man  calmly. 
"I  should  advise  you  to  see  what  use  you  can 
make  of  it. " 

"The  first  use  I'll  make  of  it  is  to  order  you  from 
the  house.  You  can  go  at  once."  Nicholas  had 
pointed  towards  the  door. 

The  man  had  got  up. 

"All  right,"  he  had  said,  looking  at  him  for  the 
first  time  in  the  last  ten  minutes.  "But  don't 
forget.     You've  got  the  year,  you  know." 

"To  hell  with  the  year, "  said  Nicholas  curtly. 

"  Damn  the  fellow, "  he  had  said  as  the  door  had 


14  ANTON Y  GRA  Y,— GARDENER 

closed  behind  him.  But  the  very  truth  of  the 
words  had  left  a  wound, — a  clean-cut  wound 
however.  There  was  never  any  bungling  where 
Doctor  Hilary  was  concerned. 

And  now  incisive,  sharp,  came  the  taps  of  the 
hammer  on  it,  taps  dealt  by  Job  Grantley's  chance 
words. 

"  Confound  both  the  men, "  he  muttered.  "  But 
the  fellow  deserved  the  five  pounds.  It  was  the 
first  interest  I've  had  for  fifteen  years.  The  kind 
of  entrance  I'd  have  made  myself,  too;  or  perhaps 
mine  would  have  been  even  a  bit  more  imusual, 
eh,  Nick  the  dare-devil!" 

It  was  the  old  name  again.  He  had  never 
earned  it  through  the  least  malice,  however.  Fool- 
hardiness  perhaps,  added  to  indomitable  high 
spirits  and  good  health,  but  malice,  never. 

How  Father  O'Brady  had  chuckled  over  the 
prank  that  had  first  earned  him  the  title, — the 
holding  up  of  the  coach  that  ran  between  Byestry 
and  Kingsleigh,  Nick  at  the  head  of  a  band  of  half 
a  dozen  young  scapegraces  clad  in  black  masks  and 
huge  hats,  and  armed  with  old  pistols  purloined 
from  the  historic  gun-room  of  the  old  Hall !  It  had 
been  a  leaf  from  the  book  of  Claude  Duval  with  a 
slight  difference. 

Nick  had  re-acted  the  scene  for  him.  He  was 
an  inimitable  mimic.  He  had  taken  off  old  Lady 
Fanshawe's  cackling  fright  to  the  life.  As  the 
stoutest  and  oldest  dowager  of  the  lot  he  had 
obliged  her  to  dance  a  minuet  with  him,   the 


PROLOGUE  15 

terrified  coachman,  postilion,  and  solitary  male 
passenger  covered  by  his  companions'  pistols  the 
while.  The  fluttered  yoimger  occupants  of  the 
coach  had  frankly  envied  the  terrified  dowager, 
yet  Nick  had  bestowed  but  the  most  perfunctory 
of  glances  upon  them,  and  that  ^for  a  reason  best 
known  to  himself. 

Later  the  truth  of  the  affair  had  leaked  out,  and 
Lady  Fanshawe  could  never  chaperon  one  of  her 
numerous  nieces  to  a  ball,  without  being  besieged 
by  yoimg  men  imploring  the  favour  of  a  dance. 
Being  a  sporting  old  lady — when  not  out  of  her 
wits  with  terror — she  had  taken  it  all  in  good  part. 
Once,  even,  she  had  danced  the  very  same  minuet 
with  Nick,  the  whole  ballroom  looking  on  and 
applauding. 

It  had  been  the  first  of  a  series  of  pranks  each 
madder  than  the  last,  but  each  equally  light- 
hearted  and  gay. 

That  is  till  Cecilia  Lester  married  Basil  Percy. 

The  world,  namely  the  small  circle  in  which 
Cecilia  and  Nick  moved,  had  heard  of  the  marriage 
with  amazement.  If  Nick  was  amazed  he  did  not 
show  it,  but  his  pranks  held  less  of  gaiety,  more  of 
a  grim  fooUiardiness.  Father  O'Brady  no  longer 
chuckled  over  their  recitation.  Maybe  because 
they  mainly  reached  his  ears  from  outside  sources. 
Nick,  who  was  not  of  his  fold,  seldom  sought  his 
society  in  these  days.  Later  he  heard  them  not  at 
all,  being  removed  to  another  mission. 

And  then,  at  last,  came  the  day  when  Nick 


I6  ANTONY  GRAY— GARDENER 

played  his  final  prank  in  the  hunting  field, — ^his 
maddest  prank,  in  which  Baccarat  failed  him.  The 
horse  was  shot  where  he  lay.  His  rider  was  car- 
ried home  half  dead;  and  half  dead,  Hterally,  he 
had  been  for  fifteen  years. 

And  there  was  yet  one  more  year  left  to  him. 

'  Nicholas  sat  gazing  at  the  fire. 
His  brain  was  extraordinarily  alert.  There 
was  a  dawning  humour  waking  in  his  eyes,  a  hint 
of  the  bygone  years*  devil-may-careness.  The 
old  Nick  was  stirring  within  him,  roused  by  the 
little  blows  of  that  sentence. 

Suddenly  a  flash  of  laughter  illuminated  his 
whole  face.  He  brought  his  hand  down  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair. 

"By  gad,  I've  got  it,  and  Hilary's  the  man  to 
help  me. " 

.It  was  characteristic  of  Nicholas  to  forget  his 
own  share  in  that  Httle  ten-day-old  scene.  Also 
it  may  be  safely  averred  that  Doctor  Hilary  would 
be  equally  forgetful. 

Nicholas  still  sat  gazing  into  the  fire,  chuckling 
every  now  and  then  to  himself.  It  was  midnight 
before  he  rang  for  Jessop.  The  ringing  had  been 
preceded  by  one  short  sentence. 
:  "By  gad,  Nick  the  dare-devil,  the  scheme's 
"worthy  of  the  old  days." 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  LETTER 

Antony  was  sitting  on  the  stoep  of  his  bungalow. 
The  African  sun  was  bathing  the  landscape  in  a 
golden  glory.  Before  him  lay  his  garden,  a  medley 
of  brilliant  colour.  Just  beyond  it  was  a  field  of 
green  Indian  com,  scintillating  to  silver  as  a  little 
breeze  swept  its  surface.  Beyond  it  again  lay  the 
vineyard,  and  the  thatched  roof  of  an  old  Dutch 
farmhouse  half  hidden  among  trees.  Farther  off 
still  rose  the  mountains,  golden  in  the  sunlight. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  Silence 
reigned  around,  broken  only  by  the  occasional 
chirp  of  a  grasshopper,  the  muffled  note  of  a  frog, 
the  twitter  of  the  canaries  among  the  cosmos,  or 
the  rustle  of  the  reed  curtain  which  veiled  the  end 
of  the  stoep. 

The  reed  curtain  veiled  the  bathroom,  a  primi- 
tive affair,  the  bath  consisting  of  half  an  old  wine 
vat,  filled  with  velvety  mountain  water,  conducted 
thither  by  means  of  a  piece  of  hose-piping  attached 
to  the  solitary  water  tap  the  estate  possessed.  It 
was  emptied  by  means  of  a  bung  fixed  in  the  lower 
a  17 


i8  ANTONY  GRAY,-€ARDENER 

part  of  the  vat,  the  water  affording  irrigation  for 
the  garden. 

Antony  sat  very  still.  His  coat  lay  beside  him 
on  the  stoep.  A  small  wire-haired  puppy  named 
Josephus  moimted  guard  upon  it.  Woe  betide 
the  person  other  than  Antony's  self  who  ventured 
to  lay  finger  on  the  garment.  There  would  be  a 
bristHng  of  short  wiry  white  hair,  a  showing  of  baby 
white  teeth,  and  a  series  of  almost  incredibly  vicious 
growls.  Josephus  permitted  no  man  to  take 
liberties  with  his  master's  property,  nor  indeed 
with  his  ridiculously  dignified  small  self.  Antony 
was  the  sole  exception  to  his  rule.  But  then  was 
not  he  a  king  among  men,  a  person  whose  word  was 
law,  whose  caress  a  benediction,  whose  blow  a 
thing  for  which  to  demand  mute  pardon?  You 
knew  it  was  deserved,  though  the  knowledge  might 
possibly  at  times  be  vague,  since  your  wisdom  was 
as  yet  but  puppy  wisdom. 

Now  and  again  Josephus  hung  out  a  pink  tongue, 
a  tongue  which  demanded  milk  in  a  saucer.  He 
knew  tea-time  to  the  second, — ordinarily  speaking 
that  is  to  say.  He  could  not  accustom  himself  to 
that  extra  half -hour's  delay  which  occurred  on  mail 
days,  a  delay  caused  by  Riffle,  the  coloured  boy, 
having  to  walk  to  the  village  to  fetch  the  post. 
The  walk  was  seldom  entirely  fruitless.  Generally 
there  was  a  newspaper  of  sorts;  occasionally — 
very  occasionally — a  letter.  Josephus  knew 
that  the  click  of  the  garden  gate  heralded  the 
swift  arrival  of  tea,  but  it  was  not  always  easy 


THE  LETTER  19 

to  realize  on  which  days  that  click  was  to  be 
expected. 

Antony  gazed  at  the  scintillating  field  of  com. 
The  sight  pleased  him.  There  is  always  a  glory 
in  creation,  even  if  it  be  creation  by  proxy,  so  to 
speak.  At  all  events  he  had  been  the  human  agent 
in  the  matter.  He  had  ploughed  the  brown  earth  j 
he  had  cast  the  yellow  seed,  trudging  the  furrows 
with  swinging  arm;  he  had  dug  the  little  trenches 
through  which  the  limpid  moimtain  water  should 
flow  to  the  parched  earth;  he  had  watched  the 
first  hint  of  green  spreading  Hke  a  light  veil;  he 
had  seen  it  thicken,  carpeting  the  field;  and  now 
he  saw  the  full  fruit  of  his  labours.  Strong  and 
healthy  it  stood  before  him,  the  soft  wind  rippling 
across  its  surface,  silvering  the  green. 

The  click  of  the  garden  gate  roused  him  from 
his  contemplation.  Josephus  cocked  one  ear,  his 
small  body  pleasurably  alert. 

Antony  turned  his  head.  Mail  day  always  held 
possibiUties,  however  improbable,  an  expectation 
imknown  to  those  to  whom  the  sound  of  the  post- 
man's knock  comes  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events* 
Riffle  appeared  roimd  the  comer  of  the  stoep. 
Had  you  seen  him  an3rwhere  but  in  Africa,  you 
would  have  vowed  he  was  a  good-looking^ 
Italian.  A  Cape  coloured  boy  he  was  truly, 
and  that,  mark  you,  is  a  very  different  thing- 
from  Kaffir. 

"  The  paper,  master,  and  a  letter, "  he  announced 
with  some  importance.     Then  he  disappeared  to 


20  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

prepare  the  tea  for  which  Josephus's  doggy  soul 
was  longing. 

Antony  turned  the  letter  in  his  hands.  It  must 
be  confessed  it  was  a  disappointment.  It  was 
obviously  a  business  communication.  Both  en- 
velope and  clerkly  writing  made  that  fact  apparent. 
It  was  a  drop  to  earth  after  the  first  leap  of  joy 
that  had  heralded  Riffle's  annoimcement.  It  was 
like  putting  out  your  hand  to  greet  a  friend,  and 
meeting — a  commercial  traveller. 

Antony  smiled  ruefully.  Yet,  after  all,  it  was 
an  English  commercial  traveller.  That  fact  stood 
for  something.  It  was,  at  all  events,  a  faint  breath 
of  the  Old  Country.  In  England  the  letter  had 
been  penned,  in  England  it  had  been  posted,  from 
England  it  had  come  to  him.  Yet  who  on  earth 
had  business  affairs  to  communicate  to  him! 

He  broke  the  seal. 

Amazement  fell  upon  him  with  the  first  words 
he  read.  By  the  end  of  the  perusal  his  brain 
was  whirling.  It  was  incredible,  astounding.  He 
stared  out  into  the  sunshine.  Stuely  he  was 
dreaming.  It  must  be  a  joke  of  sorts,  a  laughable 
hoax.  Yet  there  was  no  hint  of  joking  in  the 
concise  communication,  in  the  small  clerkly  hand- 
writing, in  the  business-Hke  letter-paper,  a  letter- 
paper  headed  by  the  name  of  a  most  respectable 
firm  of  solicitors. 

"Well,  I'm  jiggered,"  declared  Antony  to  the 
sunshine.  And  he  fell  to  a  second  perusal  of  the 
letter.     Here  is  what  he  read: 


THE  LETTER  21 

"Dear  Sir, 

"We  beg  to  inform  you  that  under  the  terms  of 
the  will  of  the  late  Mr.  Nicholas  Danver  of  Chorley 
Old  Hall,  Byestry,  in  the  County  of  Devon,  you 
are  left  sole  legatee  of  his  estate  and  personal 
effects  estimated  at  an  income  of  some  twelve 
thousand  pounds  per  annum,  subject,  however,  to 
certain  conditions,  which  are  to  be  communicated 
verbally  to  you  by  us. 

"In  order  that  you  may  be  enabled  to  hear  the 
conditions  without  imdue  inconvenience  to  your- 
self, we  have  been  authorized  to  defray  any 
expenses  you  may  incur  either  directly  or  indirectly 
through  your  journey  to  England,  and — should  you 
so  desire — yoiu:  return  journey.  We  enclose  here- 
with cheque  for  one  hundred  pounds  on  account. 

"As  the  property  is  yoiu"s  only  upon  conditions, 
we  must  beg  that  you  will  make  no  mention  of  this 
communication  to  any  person  whatsoever  until 
such  time  as  you  have  been  made  acquainted  with 
the  said  conditions.  We  should  be  obliged  if  you 
would  cable  to  us  your  decision  whether  or  no  you 
intend  to  hear  them,  and — should  the  answer  be  in 
the  affirmative — the  approximate  date  we  may 
expect  you  in  England. 

"Yours  obediently, 

"Henry  Parsons." 

And  the  paper  was  headed,  Parsons  &  Glieve, 
Solicitors. 

Nicholas  Danver.     Where  had  he  heard  that 


22  AhlTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

name  before?  What  faint  cord  of  memory  did 
it  strike?  He  sought  in  vain  for  the  answer.  Yet 
somehow,  at  sometime,  surely  he  had  heard  it! 
Again  and  again  he  seemed  on  the  verge  of  dis- 
covering the  clue,  and  again  and  again  it  escaped 
him,  slipping  elusive  from  him.  It  was  tantaHzing, 
annoying.  With  a  slight  mental  effort  he  aban- 
doned the  search.  Unpursued,  the  clue  might 
presently  return  to  him. 

Riffle  reappeared  on  the  stoep  bearing  a  tea- 
tray.  Josephus  sat  erect.  For  full  ten  minutes 
his  brown  eyes  gazed  ardently  towards  the  table. 
What  had  happened?  What  untoward  event  had 
occurred?  Antony  was  oblivious  of  his  very  exist- 
ence. Munching  bread  and  butter,  drinking  hot 
tea  himself,  he  appeared  entirely  to  have  forgotten 
that  a  thirsty  and  bewilderedly  disappointed  puppy 
Tvas  gazing  at  him  from  the  harbourage  of  his  old 
coat.  At  length  the  neglect  became  a  thing  not 
to  be  borne.  Waving  a  deprecating  paw,  Josephus 
gave  vent  to  a  pitiful  whine. 

Antony  turned.  Then  realization  dawned  on 
him.     He  grasped  the  milk  jug. 

"You  poor  little  beggar,"  he  laughed.  "It's 
not  often  you  get  neglected.  But  it's  not  often 
that  bombshells  in  the  shape  of  ordinary,  simple, 
harmless-looking  letters  fall  from  the  skies,  scat- 
tering extraordinary  contents  and  my  wits  along 
with  them.  Here  you  are,  you  morsel  of  injured 
patience. " 

Josephus    lapped,    greedily,    thirstily,    till  the 


THE  LETTER  23 

empty  saucer  circled  on  the  stoep  under  the 
onslaughts  of  his  small  pink  tongue. 

Antony  had  again  sunk  into  a  reverie,  a  reverie 
which  lasted  for  another  fifteen  minutes  or  so. 
At  last  he  roused  himself. 

"Josephus,  my  son,"  he  announced  solemnly, 
"there  are  jobs  to  be  done,  and  in  spite  of  bomb- 
shells we'd  better  do  them,  and  leave  Arabian 
Night  wonders  for  further  contemplation  this 
evening." 


CHAPTER  II 

MEMORIES 

Some  four  hours  later,  Antony,  once  more  in  his 
deck-chair  on  the  stoep,  set  himself  to  review 
the  situation.  Shorn  of  its  first  bewilderment  it 
resolved  itself  into  the  fact  that  he,  Antony  Gray^ 
owner  of  a  small  farm  on  the  African  veldt,  which 
farm  brought  him  in  a  couple  of  hundred  a  year  or 
thereabouts,  was  about  to  become  the  proprietor  of 
an  estate  valued  at  a  yearly  income  of  twelve 
thousand, — subject,  however,  to  certain  conditions. 
And  in  that  last  clause  lay  the  possible  fly  in  the 
ointment.     What  conditions? 

Antony  turned  the  possibilities  in  his  mind. 

Matrimony  with  some  lady  of  Nicholas  Dan- 
ver's  own  choosing?  He  dismissed  the  idea.  It 
savoured  too  much  of  early  Victorian  melodrama 
for  the  prosaic  twentieth  century.  The  support  of 
some  antediluvian  servant  or  pet?  Possibly.  But 
then  it  would  hardly  be  necessary  to  require  verbal 
communication  of  such  a  condition ;  a  brief  written 
statement  to  the  effect  would  have  sufficed.  The 
house  ghost-haunted;  a  yearly  exorcising  of  the 

24 


MEMORIES  25 

restless  spirit  demanded  ?  Again  too  melodramatic. 
A  promise  to  live  on  the  estate,  and  on  the  estate 
alone?    Far  more  probable. 

Well,  he'd  give  that  fast  enough.  The  veldt- 
desire  had  never  gripped  him  as  it  is  declared  to 
grip  those  who  have  foimd  a  home  in  Africa. 
Behind  the  splendour,  the  pageantry,  the  vastness, 
he  had  always  felt  a  hint  of  something  sinister, 
something  cruel;  a  spirit,  perhaps  of  evil,  ever 
wakeful,  ever  watching.  Now  and  again  a  sound, 
a  scent  would  make  him  sick  with  longing,  with 
longing  for  an  English  meadow,  for  the  clean 
breath  of  new-mown  hay,  for  the  fragrance  of  June 
roses,  for  the  song  of  the  thrush,  and  the  sweet 
piping  of  the  blackbird. 

He  had  crushed  down  the  longing  as  sentimental. 
Having  set  out  on  a  path  he  would  walk  it,  till 
such  time  as  Fate  should  clearly  indicate  another 
signpost.  He  saw  her  finger  now,  and  welcomed 
the  direction  of  its  pointing.  At  all  events  he 
might  make  venture  of  the  new  route, — an  Arabian 
Night's  path  truly,  gold-paved,  mysterious.  If, 
after  making  some  steps  along  it,  he  should  dis- 
cover a  barrier  other  than  he  had  a  mind  to  sur- 
mount, he  could  always  return  to  the  old  road. 
Fate  might  point,  but  she  should  never  push  him 
against  his  will.  Thus  he  argued,  confident  within 
his  soul.  He  had  the  optimism,  the  trust  of  youth 
to  his  balance.  He  had  not  yet  learned  the  deepest 
of  Fate's  subtleties,  the  apparent  candour  which 
conceals  her  tricks. 


26  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

He  gazed  out  into  the  night,  ruminative,  specu- 
lative. The  breeze  which  had  rippled  across  the 
Indian  com  during  the  day  had  sunk  to  rest.  The 
darkened  field  lay  tranquil  under  the  stars  big  and 
luminous.  From  far  across  the  veldt  came  the 
occasional  beating  of  a  buzzard's  wings,  like  the 
beating  of  muffled  drums.  A  patch  of  gum  trees 
to  the  right,  beyond  the  garden,  stood  out  black 
against  the  sky. 

Nicholas  Danver.  The  name  repeated  itself 
within  his  brain,  and  then,  with  it,  came  a  sudden 
flash  of  lucid  memory  lighting  up  a  long  forgotten 
scene. 

He  saw  a  small  boy,  a  very  small  boy,  tugging, 
pulling,  and  twisting  at  a  tough  gorse  stick  on  a 
moorland.  He  felt  the  clenching  of  small  teeth, 
the  brtdsed  ache  of  small  hands,  the  heat  of  the 
small  body,  the  obstinate  determination  of  soul. 
A  slight  sound  had  caused  the  boy  to  turn,  and  he 
had  seen  a  man  on  a  big  black  horse,  watching  him 
with  laughing  eyes. 

"You'll  never  break  that,"  the  man  had 
remarked  amused. 

"I've  got  to.  I've  begun,"  had  been  the  small 
boy's  retort.  And  he  had  returned  to  the  on- 
slaught, regardless  of  the  watching  man. 

Ten  minutes  had  ended  in  an  exceedingly  heated 
triimiph.  The  boy  had  simk  upon  the  grass, 
sucking  a  wounded  finger.  The  mood  of  deter- 
mination had  passed  with  the  victory.  He  had 
been  too  shy  to  look  at  the  rider  on  the  black 


MEMORIES  \  27' 

horse.    But    the    gorse    stick   had    Iain  on  the 
ground  beside  him. 

"Shake  hands,"  the  man  had  said. 

And  the  boy  had  scrambled  to  his  feet  to  extend 
a  grubby  paw. 

"What's  your  name?"  the  man  had  demanded. 

"Antony  Gray." 

"  Not  Richard  Gray's  son? " 

"Yes." 

The  man  had  burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"Where  is  your  father?" 

"In  London." 

"  Well,  tell  him  his  son  is  a  chip  of  the  old  block,  ^ 
and  Nicholas  Danver  says  so.    Ask  him  if  he 
remembers  the  coach  road  from  Byestry  to  Kings- 
leigh.     Good-bye,  youngster. " 

And  Nicholas  had  ridden  away. 

It  was  astonishing  in  what  detail  the  scene  came 
back  to  him.  He  could  smell  the  hot  aromatic 
scent  of  the  gorse  and  wild  thyme.  He  could  hear 
the  htmiming  of  the  bees  above  the  heather.  He 
could  see  the  figure  on  the  black  horse  growing 
speck-like  in  the  distance  as  he  had  gazed  after  it. 

The  whole  thing  pieced  itself  together.  He 
remembered  that  he  had  gone  to  that  cottage  on 
the  moorland  with  his  nurse  to  recover  after 
measles.  He  remembered  that  his  father  had  said 
that  the  air  of  the  place  would  make  a  new  boy  of 
him.  He  remembered  his  father's  laugh,  when, 
later,  the  tale  of  the  meeting  had  been  recoimted 
to  him. 


28  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

"Good  old  Nick,"  he  had  said.  "One  loses 
sight  of  the  friends  of  one's  boyhood  as  one  grows 
older,  more's  the  pity.     I  must  write  to  old  Nick." 

There  the  incident  had  closed.  Yet  clearly  as 
the  day  on  which  it  had  occurred,  a  day  now 
twenty-five  years  old,  it  repainted  itself  on  An- 
tony's brain,  as  he  sat  on  the  stoep,  gazing  out 
into  the  African  night. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  why  Nicholas 
should  have  left  him  his  money  and  property. 
That  he  had  done  so  was  marvellous,  truly;  his 
reasons  for  doing  so  were  not  even  speculated 
upon.  Antony  had  a  childlike  faculty  for  accept- 
ing facts  as  they  presented  themselves  to  him,  with 
wonderment,  pleasure,  frank  disapprobation,  or 
stoicism,  as  the  case  might  be.  The  side  issues, 
which  led  to  the  presentation  of  the  facts,  were, 
generally  speaking,  the  affair  of  others  rather  than 
his  own;  and,  as  such,  were  no  concern  of  his.  It 
was  not  that  he  deliberately  refused  to  consider 
them,  but  merely  that  being  no  concern  of  his, 
it  never  occurred  to  him  to  do  so.  He  walked  his 
own  route,  sometimes  singing,  sometimes  dreaming, 
sometimes  amusedly  silent,  and  always  working. 
Work  had  been  of  necessity  from  the  day  his 
father's  death  had  summoned  him  hurriedly  from 
college.  A  quixotic,  and,  it  is  to  be  feared,  cul- 
pable generosity  on  Richard  Gray's  part  had  left 
his  son  penniless. 

Antony  had  accepted  the  fact  stoically,  and 
even  cheerfully.     He  had  looked  straight  at  the 


MEMORIES  29 

generosity,  denying  the  culpability,  thereby  pre- 
serving what  he  valued  infinitely  more  than  lands 
or  gold — his  father's  memory,  thus  proving  him- 
self in  very  truth  his  son.  He  had  no  ties  to  bind 
him;  he  was  an  only  child,  and  his  mother  was  long 
since  dead.  He  set  out  on  his  own  route,  a  route 
which  had  led  him  far,  and  finally  had  landed  him, 
some  five  years  previously,  on  the  African  veldt, 
where  he  had  become  the  owner  of  the  small  farm 
he  now  occupied. 

After  all,  there  had  been  compensations  in  the 
life.  All  unconsciously  he  had  taken  for  his  watch- 
word the  cry:  "I  will  succeed  in  spite  of  .  .  .  " 
rather  than  the  usual  old  lament:  "I  could  suc- 
ceed if.  .  .  . "  Naturally  there  had  been  diffi- 
culties. He  had  considered  them  grave-eyed  and 
silent;  he  had  tackled  them  smiling  and  singing. 
Inwardly  he  was  the  same  Antony  who  had  con- 
quered the  gorse-stick  on  the  moorland ;  outwardly 
— well,  he  didn't  make  the  fight  so  obvious.  That 
was  all  the  difference. 

And  now,  sitting  on  the  stoep  with  the  silence 
of  the  African  night  around  him,  he  tried  to  shape 
his  plans,  to  bring  them  forth  from  the  glamour  of 
the  marvellous  which  had  enshrouded  them,  to 
marshal  them  up  into  coherent  everyday  form. 
But  the  glamour  refused  to  be  dispelled.  Every- 
thing, the  smallest  and  most  prosaic  detail,  stood 
before  him  bathed  in  its  light.  It  was  all  so 
gorgeously  unexpected,  so — so  stupendously 
mysterious. 


30  ANTON  Y  GRA  Y,-CARDENER 

And  through  all  the  glamour,  the  unexpected- 
ness, and  the  mystery,  there  was  sounding  an 
ever-repeated  chord  of  music,  composed  of  the 
notes  of  youth,  happiness,  memory,  desire,  and 
expectation.  And,  thus  combined,  they  struck 
the  one  word — ^England. 


CHAPTER  III 

QUOD  SCRIPTUM  EST 

The  Fort  Salisbury  was  cutting  her  way  through 
the  translucent  green  water.  Cape  Town,  with 
Table  Mountain  and  the  Lion's  Head  beyond  it, 
was  vanishing  into  the  increasing  distance. 

Antony  had  taken  his  passage  on  the  Fort 
Salisbury  for  three  reasons:  number  one,  she 
was  the  first  boat  sailing  from  Cape  Town  after  he 
had  dispatched  his  momentous  cablegram;  number 
two,  he  had  a  certain  diffidence  regarding  the  ex- 
penditure of  other  people's  money,  and  his  pas- 
sage on  the  Fort  Salisbury  would  certainly  be 
lower  than  on  a  mail  boat ;  number  three,  a  curious 
and  altogether  unaccountable  impulse  had  im- 
pelled him  to  the  choice.  This  reason  had,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  weighed  with  him  considerably  more 
than  the  other  two.  He  often  found  instinct  throw- 
ing itself  into  the  balance  for  or  against  the  motives 
of  mere  reason.  When  it  was  against  mere  reason, 
matters  occasionally  complicated  themselves  in  his 
mind.  It  had  been  a  comfort  to  find,  in  this  case, 
reason  on  the  same  side  of  the  scale  as  instinct. 

31 


32  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Antony,  leaning  on  the  rail  of  the  upper  deck, 
was  content,  blissfully  content.  The  sole  speck 
that  marred  his  entire  enjoyment  was  the  fact 
that  the  rules  of  the  boat  had  separated  him,  pro 
tern,  from  an  exceedingly  perplexed  and  distressed 
puppy.  It  was  the  perplexity  and  distress  of  the 
said  puppy  that  caused  the  speck,  rather  than  the 
separation.  Antony,  with  the  vaster  wisdom 
vouchsafed  to  humans,  knew  the  present  separa- 
tion to  be  of  comparatively  short  duration,  and  to 
be  endured  in  the  avoidance  of  a  possibly  infinitely 
longer  one.  Not  so  Josephus.  He  suffered  in 
silence,  since  his  deity  had  commanded  the  silence, 
but  the  perplexed  grief  in  his  puppy  heart  found 
an  echo  in  Antony's. 

It  was  a  faint  echo,  however.  Time  and  a  daily 
visit  would  bring  consolation  to  Josephus;  and, 
for  himself,  the  present  adventure — it  was  an 
adventure — was  all-absorbing  and  delicious.  He 
revelled  in  it  like  a  schoolboy  on  a  holiday.  He 
watched  the  sparkHng  water,  the  tiny  rippling 
waves;  he  felt  the  freshness  of  the  sea  breeze,  and 
the  throb  of  the  engine  like  a  great  living  heart  in 
the  body  of  the  boat.  The  fact  that  there  were 
other  people  on  her  decks  concerned  him  not  at  all. 
Those  who  have  travelled  a  good  deal  become, 
generally  speaking,  one  of  two  types, — the  type 
that  is  quite  enormously  interested  in  everyone, 
and  the  type  that  is  entirely  indifferent  to  any  one. 
Antony  was  of  this  last  type.  Ke  had  acquired  a 
faculty  for  shutting  his  mental,  and  to  a  great 


QUOD  SCRIPTUM  EST  33 

degree,  his  physical  eyes  to  his  human  fellows, 
except  in  so  far  as  sheer  necessity  compelled. 
Naturally  this  did  not  make  for  popularity;  but, 
then,  Antony  did  not  care  much  for  popularity. 
The  winning  of  it  woidd  have  been  too  great  an 
effort  for  his  nature;  the  retaining  of  it,  even  more 
strenuous.  Of  course  the  whole  thing  is  entirely 
a  question  of  temperament. 

A  few  of  the  other  passengers  looked  somewhat 
curiously  at  the  tall  lean  man  gazing  out  to  sea; 
but,  as  he  was  so  obviously  oblivious  of  their  very 
existence,  so  entirely  absorbed  in  his  contempla- 
tion of  the  ocean,  they  left  him  undisturbed. 

It  was  not  till  the  dressing  bugle  sounded  that 
he  roused  himself,  and  descended  to  his  cabin. 
It  was  a  matter  for  his  fervent  thanksgiving  that 
he  had  found  himself  the  sole  occupant  of  the 
tiny  two-berthed  apartment. 

He  arrayed  himself  with  scrupulous  care.  Only 
the  most  stringent  exigencies  of  time  and  place — 
though  they  for  a  while  had  been  frequent — ^had 
ever  caused  him  to  forego  the  ceremonial  of  don- 
ning dress  clothes  for  dinner,  though  no  eyes  but 
his  own  should  behold  him.  Latterly  there  had 
been  Riffle  and  then  Josephus  to  behold,  and  the 
former  to  marvel.  Josephus  took  it,  puppy-like, 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

There  were  not  a  vast  number  of  passengers  on 

the  boat.     Of  the  four  tables  in  the  dining  saloon, 

Antony  found  only  two  fully  laid,  and  a  third 

partially  so.    His  own  place  was  some  three  seats 

3 


34  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

from  the  captain's  left.  The  chair  on  the  cap- 
tain's right  was,  as  yet,  unoccupied.  For  the  rest, 
with  but  one  or  two  exceptions  at  the  other  tables, 
the  passengers  had  already  put  in  an  appearance. 
The  almost  entire  absence  of  wind,  the  smooth- 
ness of  the  ocean,  had  given  coin-age  even  to  those 
the  most  susceptible  to  the  sea's  malady.  It  would 
have  required  a  really  vivid  imagination  to  have 
perceived  any  motion  in  the  boat  other  than  the 
throbbing  of  her  engines. 

Antony  slipped  into  his  seat,  and  a  steward 
placed  a  plate  of  clear  soup  before  him.  In  the 
act  of  taking  his  first  spoonful,  he  paused,  his  eyes 
arrested  by  the  sight  of  a  woman  advancing 
towards  the  chair  on  the  captain's  right. 

At  the  first  glance,  Antony  saw  that  she  was  a 
tall  woman,  dressed  in  black  unrelieved  save  for 
rufiies  of  soft  creamy  lace  at  her  throat  and  wrists. 
Presently  he  took  in  fiuther  details,  the  dark 
chestnut  of  her  hair,  the  warm  ivory  of  her  skin, 
the  curious  steady  gravity  of  her  eyes — grey  or 
violet,  he  was  not  sure  which,  —  the  straight  line 
of  her  eyebrows,  the  delicate  chiselling  of  her  nose, 
and  the  red-rose  of  her  mouth.  And  yet,  in  spite 
of  seeing  the  details,  they  were  submerged  in  the 
personaHty  which  had  first  arrested  him.  Some- 
thing within  him  told  him  as  clearly  as  spoken 
words,  that  here,  in  her  presence,  lay  the  explana- 
tion of  the  instinct  which  had  prompted  him  to 
take  his  passage  on  this  boat. 

An  odd  Httle  thrill  of  unaccountable  excitement 


QUOD  SCRIPTUM  EST  35 

ran  through  him.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  had 
been  shown  a  page  in  his  own  life-book,  and  who 
found  the  words  written  thereon  extraordinarily 
and  amazingly  interesting.  He  foimd  himself 
longing,  half -inarticulately,  to  turn  the  leaf;  and, 
yet,  he  knew  that  Time's  hand  alone  could  do  this. 
He  could  only  read  as  far  as  the  end  of  the  open 
page  before  him.  And  that  page  but  recorded  the 
fact  of  her  presence. 

Once,  during  the  repast,  her  eyes  met  his, 
steady,  grave,  and  yet  with  a  little  note  of  half 
interrogation  in  them.  Again  Antony  felt  that 
odd  Httle  thrill  nm  through  him,  this  time  intensi- 
fied, while  his  heart  beat  and  pounded  imder  his 
immaculate  white  shirt-front. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  mercy  that  shirt-fronts,  to  say 
nothing  of  other  things,  do  hide  the  vagaries  of 
our  hearts.  It  would  be  a  sorry  thing  for  us  if  the 
world  at  large  could  perceive  them, — the  joy,  the 
anguish,  the  remorse,  and  the  bitter  little  disap- 
pointments. Yes,  above  all,  the  bitter  Uttle  dis- 
appointments, the  cause  possibly  so  trivial,  so 
childish  almost,  yet  the  hurt,  the  wound,  so  very 
real,  the  pain  so  horribly  poignant.  It  is  the  Httle 
stab  which  smarts  the  most;  the  blow  which  ac- 
companies the  deeper  woimd,  numbs  in  its  very 
delivery. 

Later,  in  the  moonlit  darkness,  Antony  foimd 
himself  again  on  deck,  and  again  leaning  by  the 
rail.     Yet  this  time  he  had  that  page  from  his  Hfe- 


36  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

book  for  company;  and,  marvelling,  he  perused 
the  written  words  thereon.  It  was  extraordinary 
that  they  should  hold  such  significance  for  him. 
And  why  for  him  alone?  he  queried.  Might  not 
another,  others  even,  have  read  the  selfsame 
words? 

With  the  thought  came  a  pang  of  something 
akin  to  jealousy  at  his  heart.  He  wanted  the 
words  for  himself,  written  for  him  alone.  And 
yet  it  was  entirely  obvious,  considering  the  nimiber 
at  the  table,  that  they  must  have  been  recorded  for 
others  also,  since,  as  already  mentioned,  they  but 
recorded  the  fact  of  her  presence.  But  did  they 
hold  the  same  significance  for  the  others?  There 
was  the  question,  and  there  possibly,  nay  probably, 
lay  the  comfort.  Also,  what  lay  on  the  other  side 
of  the  page?    Unanswerable  at  the  moment. 

He  looked  down  at  the  gliding  water,  alive,  alight 
with  brilliant  phosphorus.  A  step  behind  him 
made  his  heart  leap.  He  did  not  turn,  but  he  was 
conscious  of  a  figure  on  his  right,  also  looking  down 
upon  the  water.  Suddenly  there  was  a  faint 
flutter  of  drapery,  and  the  breeze  sent  a  trail  of 
something  soft  and  silky  across  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,"  said  a  voice  in  the  darkness. 

Antony  ttuned. 

"The  wind  caught  it,"  she  explained  apologeti- 
cally, tucking  the  chiffon  streamer  within  her  cloak. 

Now,  it  is  quite  certain  that  Antony  had  here 
an  opportunity  to  make  one  of  those  little  ordinary 
pleasant  remarks  that  invariably  lead  to  a  con- 


QUOD  SCRIPTUM  EST  37 

versation,  but  none  presented  itself  to  his  mind. 
He  could  do  nothing  but  utter  the  merest  formal, 
though  of  course  polite,  acknowledgment  of  her 
apology,  his  brain  seeking  wildly  for  fiui;her  words 
the  while.    It  foimd  none. 

She  gave  him  a  little  bow,  courteous  and  not  at 
all  unfriendly,  and  moved  away  across  the  deck. 
Antony  looked  after  her  figiire  receding  in  the 
darkness. 

"Oh,  you  idiot,"  he  groaned  within  his  heart, 
"you  utter  and  double-dyed  idiot." 

He  looked  despairingly  down  at  the  water,  and 
from  it  to  the  moonht  sky.  Fate,  so  he  mused 
ruefully,  writes  certain  sentences  in  our  life-book, 
truly;  but  it  behoves  each  one  of  us  to  fill  in  be- 
tween the  lines.    And  he  had  filled  in — nothing. 

An  hour  or  so  later  he  descended  dejectedlyto 
his  cabin. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  BLUE  BCX)K 

He  saw  her  at  breakfast  the  next  morning;  and 
again,  later,  sitting  on  a  deck-chair,  with  a  book. 

Once  more  he  cursed  his  folly  of  the  previous 
evening.  A  word  or  two  then,  no  matter  how 
trivial  their  utterance,  and  the  barriers  of  conven- 
tion would  have  been  passed.  Even  should  Fate 
throw  a  like  opportunity  in  his  path  again,  it  was 
entirely  improbable  that  she  would  choose  the 
same  hour.  She  is  ever  chary  of  exact  repetitions. 
And,  if  his  stammering  tongue  failed  in  speech  with 
the  soft  darkness  to  cover  its  shyness,  how  was  it 
likely  it  would  find  utterance  in  the  broad  light  of 
day?  The  Moment — he  spelled  it  with  a  capital — 
had  passed,  and  would  never  again  recur.  There- 
fore he  seated  himself  on  his  own  deck-chair,  some 
twenty  paces  from  her,  and  began  to  fill  his  pipe, 
gloomily  enough.  Yet,  in  spite  of  gloom,  he 
watched  her, — surreptitiously  of  course.  There 
was  no  ill-bred  staring  in  his  survey. 

She  was  again  dressed  in  black,  but  this  time  the 
lace  ruffles  had  given  place  to  soft  white  muslin 

38 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  BLUE  BOOK        39 

cuffs  and  collar.  Her  dark  hair  was  covered  by  a 
broad-brimmed  black  hat.  She  was  leaning  back 
in  her  chair  as  she  read,  the  book  lying  on  her  lap. 
Suddenly  the  gravity  of  her  face  relaxed.  A  smile 
rippled  across  it  like  a  little  breeze  across  the  sur- 
face of  some  lake.  The  smile  broke  into  silent 
laughter.  Antony  foimd  himself  smiling  in  re- 
sponse. 

She  looked  up  from  her  book,  and  out  over  the 
sun-kissed  water,  the  amusement  stiU  trembling 
on  her  lips  and  dancing  in  her  eyes. 

"I  wonder,"  reflected  Antony  watching  her, 
"what  she  has  been  reading. " 

For  some  ten  minutes  she  sat  gazing  at  the  sun- 
shine. Then  she  rose  from  her  chair,  placed  her 
book  upon  it,  and  went  towards  the  stairway 
which  led  to  the  lower  deck. 

Antony  looked  at  the  empty  chair — empty,  that 
is,  except  for  a  pale  blue  cushion  and  a  deeper  blue 
book.  On  the  back  of  the  chair,  certain  letters 
were  painted, —  P.  di  D. 

Antony  surveyed  them  gravely.  The  first 
letter  reaUy  engrossed  his  attention.  The  last  was 
merely  an  adjimct.  The  first  would  represent — 
or  should  represent — the  real  woman.  He  mar- 
shalled every  possibility  before  him,  merely  to 
dismiss  them:  Patience,  PhyUis,  Prudence,  Pris- 
dUa,  Perpetua,  Penelope,  Persis,  Phoebe,  Pauline, 
— none  were  to  his  mind.  The  last  appeared  to 
him  the  most  possible,  and  yet  it  did  not  truly 
belong.     So  he  summed  up  its  fitness.     Yet,  for 


40  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

the  life  of  him,  he  could  find  no  other.  He  had 
run  through  the  whole  gamut  attached  to  the 
initial,  so  he  told  himself.  Curiosity,  or  interest, 
call  it  what  you  will,  fell  back  bafl3ed. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  began  to  pace  the 
deck.  Passing  her  chair,  he  gazed  again  upon  the 
letters  painted  thereon,  as  if  challenging  them  to 
disclose  the  secret.  Inscrutable,  they  stared  back 
blankly  at  him. 

Turning  for  the  third  time,  he  perceived  that 
she  had  rettmied  on  deck.  She  was  carrying  a 
small  bag  of  old  gold  brocade.  She  was  in  the 
chair  once  more  as  he  came  alongside  of  her;  but 
the  blue  book  had  slipped  to  the  ground.  He  bent 
to  pick  it  up,  involuntarily  glancing  at  the  title  as 
he  handed  it  to  her.  Dream  Days.  It  fitted  into 
his  imaginings  of  her. 

\  "Do  you  know  it?"  she  queried,  noticing  his 
glance. 

"No,"  replied  Antony,  turning  the  book  in  his 
hands. 

"Oh,  but  you  should,"  she  smiled  back  at  him. 
"That  is  if  you  have  the  smallest  memory  of  your 
own  childhood.  I  was  just  laughing  over  'death 
letters'  ten  minutes  ago." 

"Death  letters?"  queried  Antony  perplexed, 
the  while  his  heart  was  singing  a  little  paean  of  joy 
at  the  vagaries  of  Fate's  methods. 

"Yes;  a  will  or  testament.  But  a  death  letter 
is  so  infinitely  more  explanatory.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  BLUE  BOOK        41 

Antony  laughed. 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed,  light  breaking  in  upon 
him. 

"Take  the  book  if  you  care  to,"  she  said.  "I 
know  it  nearly  by  heart.  But  I  had  it  by  me,  and 
brought  it  on  deck  to  look  at  it  again.  I  didn't 
want  to  get  absorbed  in  anything  entirely  new. 
It  takes  one's  mind  from  all  this,  and  seems  a  loss. " 
A  little  gesture  indicated  sunshine,  sea,  and  sky. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Antony,  "it's  waste  of  time  to 
read  in  the  open. "  And  then  he  stopped.  "Oh, 
I  didn't  mean — "  he  stammered,  glancing  down 
at  the  book,  and  perceiving  ungraciousness  in 
his  words. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did,"  she  assured  him  smiHng, 
^'and  it  was  quite  true,  and  not  in  the  least  rude. 
Read  it  in  your  berth  some  time;  you  can  do  it 
there  with  an  easy  conscience. " 

She  gave  him  a  little  nod,  which  might  have  been 
considered  dismissal  or  a  hint  of  emphasis.  An- 
tony, being  of  course  aware  that  she  could  not 
possibly  find  it  the  same  pleasure  to  talk  to  him  as 
he  found  it  to  talk  to  her,  took  it  as  dismissal. 
With  a  word  of  thanks  he  moved  off  down  the  deck, 
the  blue  book  in  his  hands. 

He  found  a  retired  spot  forward  on  the  boat. 
A  curious  shyness  prevented  him  from  returning  to 
his  own  deck-chair,  and  reading  the  book  within 
sight  of  her.  In  spite  of  his  little  remark  against 
reading  in  the  open,  he  was  longing  to  make  himself 
acquainted  with  the  contents  immediately.     Had 


42  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

it  not  been  her  recommendation?  Death  letters T 
He  laughed  softly  and  joyously.  He  had  never 
even  given  the  things  a  thought  before,  and  here, 
twice  within  ten  days,  they  had  been  brought  to 
his  notice  in  a  fashion  that,  to  his  mind,  fell  little 
short  of  the  miraculous.  And  it  is  not  at  all  certain 
that  he  did  not  consider  their  second  queer  little 
entry  on  the  scene  the  more  miraculous  of  the  two. 
He  opened  the  book,  and  there,  facing  him  from 
the  fly-leaf,  was  the  answer  to  the  question  he  had 
erstwhile  sought  to  fathom, — Pia  di  Donatello. 
His  lips  formed  the  syllables,  dwelling  with  plea- 
sure on  the  first  three  little  letters — Pia.  Oh,  it 
was  right,  it  was  utterly  and  entirely  right.  Every 
other  possibility  vanished  before  it  into  the  re- 
motest background,  imthinkable  in  the  face  of 
what  was.  Pia  di  Donatello !  Again  he  repeated 
the  musical  syllables.  And  yet — and  yet — he'd 
have  sworn  she  was  English.  There  wasn't  the 
faintest  trace  of  a  foreign  accent  in  her  speech. 
If  anything,  there  was  a  hint  of  Irish, — the  soft 
intonation  of  the  Emerald  Isle.  Her  colouring, 
too,  was  Irish,  the  blue-black  hair,  the  dark  violet 
eyes — he  had  discovered  that  they  were  violet; 
looking,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  they  had  been  put 
in  with  a  smutty  finger,  as  the  saying  goes.  He 
revolved  the  problem  in  his  mind,  and  a  moment 
later  came  upon  the  solution,  so  he  told  himself. 
An  Irish  mother,  and  an  Italian  father,  so  he 
decreed,  metaphorically  patting  himself  on  the 
back  the  while  for  his  perspicacity. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  BLUE  BOOK        43 

The  problem  settled,  he  turned  himself  to  the 
contents  of  the  book  as  set  forth  by  the  author 
thereof,  rather  than  the  three  words  inscribed  on 
the  fly-leaf  by  the  owner.  They  were  not  hard  of 
digestion.  The  print  was  large,  the  matter  Hght. 
Anon  he  came  to  MutabUe  Semper  and  the  death 
letters,  and,  having  read  them,  and  laughed  in 
concord  with  the  erstwhile  laugh  of  the  book's 
owner,  he  closed  the  pages,  and  gazed  out  upon  the 
simshine  and  the  water. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  FRIENDSHIP 

,  Emerson  has  written  a  discourse  on  friendship. 
It  is  beautifully  worded,  truly ;  it  is  full  of  a  noble 
and  high-minded  philosophy.  Doubtless  it  will 
appeal  quite  distinctly  to  those  souls  who,  al- 
though yet  on  this  earth-plane,  have  already  partly 
cast  off  the  mantle  of  flesh,  and  have  found  their 
paths  to  lie  in  the  realm  of  spirit.  Even  to  those, 
and  it  is  by  far  the  greater  majority,  who  yet  walk 
humdrumly  along  the  world's  great  highway,  the 
kingdom  of  the  spirit  perceived  by  them  as  in  a 
glass  darkly  rather  than  by  actual  light  shed  upon 
them  from  its  realm,  it  may  bring  some  consolation 
during  the  absence  of  a  friend.  But  for  the  general 
run  of  mankind  it  is  set  on  too  lofty  a  level.  It 
lacks  the  warmth  for  which  they  crave,  the  person- 
ality and  intercourse. 

"I  do  then,  with  my  friends  as  I  do  with  my 
books,"  he  says.  "I  would  have  them  where  I 
can  find  them,  but  I  seldom  use  them. " 

Now,  it  is  very  certain  that,  for  the  majority 
of  himian  beings,  the  friendliest  books  are  worn 

44 


A  FRIENDSHIP  45 

with  much  handling.  If  we  picture  for  a  moment 
the  bookshelves  belonging  to  our  childish  days,  we 
shall  at  once  mentally  discover  our  old  favourites. 
They  have  been  used  so  often.  They  have  been 
worn  in  our  service.  No  matter  how  well  we  know 
the  contents,  we  turn  to  them  again  and  again; 
there  is  a  very  joy  in  knowing  what  to  expect. 
Time  does  not  age  nor  custom  stale  the  infinite 
variety. 

Thus  it  is  in  our  childish  days.  And  are  not 
the  majority  of  us  still  children?  Should  our 
favourite  books  be  placed  out  of  our  reach,  should 
it  be  impossible  for  us  to  turn  their  pages,  it  is 
certain  that  we  would  feel  a  loss,  a  gap.  Were  we 
old  enough  to  comprehend  Emerson's  philosophy, 
we  might  endeavour  to  buoy  ourselves  up  with  the 
thought  that  thus  we  were  at  one  with  him  in  his 
nobility  and  loftiness  of  sentiment.  And  yet 
there  would  be  something  childish  and  pathetic 
in  the  endeavour,  by  reason  of  its  very  unreality. 
Certainly  if  Providence  should,  either  directly  or 
indirectly,  separate  us  from  our  friends,  by  all 
means  let  us  accept  the  separation  bravely.  It 
cannot  destroy  our  friendship.  But  seldom  to  use 
our  friends,  from  the  apparently  epicurean  point 
of  view  of  Emerson,  would  be  a  forced  and  un- 
natural doctrine  to  the  majority,  as  unnatural  as 
if  a  child  should  bury  Hans  Andersen's  fairy  tales 
for  fear  of  tiring  of  them.  It  would  savour  more 
of  present  and  actual  distaste,  than  the  love  which 
fears  its  approach.     There  is  the  familiarity  which 


46  /iNTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

breeds  contempt,  truly;  but  there  is  also  the 
familiarity  which  daily  ties  closer  bonds,  draws 
to  closer  union. 

Antony  had  established  a  friendship  with  the 
lady  of  the  blue  book.  The  book  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  its  beginning.  With  Emerson's 
definition  of  friendship  he  would  probably  have 
been  largely  in  harmony;  not  so  in  his  treatment  of 
it.  With  the  following,  he  would  have  been  at  one, 
with  the  exception  of  a  word  or  so: — "I  must  feel 
pride  in  my  friend's  accomplishments  as  if  they 
were  mine, — ^wild,  delicate,  throbbing  property  in 
his  virtues.  I  feel  as  warmly  when  he  is  praised, 
as  the  lover  when  he  hears  applause  of  his  engaged 
maiden.  We  over-estimate  the  conscience  of  our 
friend.  His  goodness  seems  better  than  our  good- 
ness, his  nature  finer,  his  temptations  less.  Every- 
thing that  is  his,  his  name,  his  form,  his  dress, 
books,  and  instruments,  fancy  enhances.  Our 
own  thought  sounds  new  and  larger  from  his 
mouth." 

Most  true,  Antony  would  have  declared,  if  you 
will   eHminate    "over-estimate,"   and   substitute 

IS    for    seems. 

Unlike  Emerson,  he  made  no  attempt  to  analyse 
his  friendship.  He  accepted  it  as  a  gift  from  the 
gods.  Maybe  somewhere  in  his  inner  conscious- 
ness, barely  articulate  even  to  his  own  heart,  he 
dreamt  of  it  as  a  foundation  to  something  further. 
Yet  for  the  present,  the  foundation  sufficed. 
Death-letters — he  laughed  joyously  at  the  coin- 


A  FRIENDSHIP  .47 

cidence — ^had  laid  the  first  stone,  and  each  day 
placed  others  in  firm  and  secure  position  round  it. 
The  building  was  largely  unconscious.  It  is  the 
way  with  true  friendship.  The  life,  also,  conduced 
to  it.  There  are  fewer  barriers  of  convention  on 
board  ship  than  in  any  other  mode  of  Uving.  Mrs. 
Grundy,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  suffers  from  sea- 
sickness, and  does  not  care  for  this  method  of 
travelling.  In  fact,  it  would  appear  that  she  sel- 
dom does  travel,  but  chooses  by  preference  small 
country  towns,  mainly  English  ones,  for  her  place 
of  residence. 

The  days  were  days  of  sunshine  and  colour, 
the  changing  colour  of  sea  and  sky;  the  nights 
were  nights  of  mystery,  veiled  in  purple,  star- 
embroidered. 

One  day  Pia  made  clear  to  him  the  explanation 
of  her  Irish  colouring  and  her  ItaHan  surname. 
Her  mother,  she  told  him,  was  Irish;  her  father, 
English.  Her  baptismal  name  had  been  chosen 
by  an  Itahan  godmother.  She  was  eighteen  when 
she  married  the  Due  di  Donatello.  On  their 
wedding  day,  when  driving  from  the  church,  the 
horses  had  bolted.  She  had  been  uninjured;  he 
had  received  serious  injuries  to  his  head  and  spine. 
He  had  Hved  for  seven  years  as  a  complete  invalid, 
totally  paralysed,  but  fuUy  conscious.  During 
those  seven  years,  she  had  never  left  him.  Two 
years  previously  he  had  died,  and  she  had  gone  to 
live  at  her  old  home  in  England, — the  Manor 
House,  Woodleigh,  which  had  been  in  the  hands  of 


48  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

caretakers  since  her  parents*  death.  Her  hus- 
band's property  had  passed  to  his  brother.  The 
last  six  months  she  had  been  sta3dng  with  a  friend 
at  Wynberg. 

She  told  the  little  tale  extremely  simply.  It 
never  occurred  to  her  to  expect  sympathy  on 
account  of  the  tragedy  which  had  marred  her 
youth,  and  by  reason  ot  which  she  had  spent  seven 
years  of  her  life  in  almost  utter  seclusion.  The  fact 
was  merely  mentioned  in  necessary  explanation  of 
her  story.  Antony,  too,  had  held  silence.  Sym- 
pathy  on  his  part  would  have  been  somehow  an 
intrusion,  an  impertinence.  But  he  tmderstood 
now,  in  part  at  least,  the  steady  gravity,  the  hint 
of  sadness  in  her  eyes. 

The  name  of  Woodleigh  awoke  vague  memories 
in  his  mind,  but  they  were  too  vague  to  be  note- 
worthy. Possibly,  most  probably,  he  told  himself, 
he  had  merely  read  of  the  place  at  some  time.  She 
mentioned  that  it  was  in  Devonshire,  but  curiously 
enough,  and  this  was  an  omission  which  he  noted 
later  with  some  surprise,  he  never  questioned  her 
as  to  its  exact  locality. 

On  his  side,  he  told  her  of  his  life  on  the  veldt, 
and  mentioned  that  he  was  returning  to  England 
on  business.  On  the  outcome  of  that  same  busi- 
ness would  depend  the  question  whether  he  re- 
mained in  England,  or  whether  he  returned  ta 
the  veldt.  Having  the  solicitor's  injunction  in 
view,  he  naturally  did  not  volunteer  further 
information.     Such  details,  too,  sank  into  insig- 


A  FRIENDSHIP  49 

nificance  before  the  more  absorbing  interest  of 
personality.  They  are,  after  all,  in  a  sense,  mere 
accidents,  and  have  no  more  to  do  with  the  real 
man  than  the  clothes  he  wears.  True,  the  manner 
in  which  one  dons  one's  clothes,  as  the  manner  in 
which  one  deals  with  the  accidental  facts  of  life, 
affords  a  certain  index  to  the  true  man;  but 
the  clothes  themselves,  and  the  accidental  facts, 
appear,  at  all  events,  to  be  matters  of  fate. 
And  if  you  can  obtain  knowledge  of  a  man 
through  actual  contact  with  his  personality, 
you  do  not  trouble  to  draw  conclusions  from 
his  method  of  donning  his  clothes.  You  may 
speculate  in  this  fashion  with  regard  to  strangers, 
or  mere  acquaintances.  You  have  a  surer,  and 
infinitely  more  interesting,  fashion  with  your 
friends. 

Life  around  them  moved  on  in  the  leisurely, 
almost  indolent  manner  in  which  it  does  move  on 
board  a  passenger  ship.  The  younger  members 
played  quoits,  cricket  on  the  lower  deck,  and  in- 
augurated concerts,  supported  by  a  gramaphone, 
the  property  of  the  chief  officer,  and  banjo  solos 
by  the  captain.  The  older  members  read  maga- 
zines, played  bridge,  or  knitted  woollen  articles, 
according  to  the  promptings  of  their  sex  and  their 
various  natures,  and  formed  audiences  at  the  afore- 
mentioned concerts. 

Antony  and  the  Duchessa  di  Donatello  alone 
seemed  somewhat  aloof  from  them.  They  formed 
part  of  the  concert  audiences,  it  is  true;  but  they 
4 


50  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

neither  played  bridge,  quoits,  nor  cricket,  nor 
knitted  woollen  articles,  nor  read  magazines.  The 
Duchessa  employed  her  time  with  a  piece  of  fine 
lace  work,  when  she  was  not  merely  luxuriating  in 
the  simshine,  or  conversing  with  Antony.  Antony 
either  conversed  with  the  Duchessa,  or  sat  in  his 
deck  chair,  smoking  and  thinking  about  her. 
There  was  certainly  a  distinct  sameness  about  the 
young  man's  occupation,  which,  however,  he 
found  not  in  the  smallest  degree  boring.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  all-absorbing  and  fascinating. 
The  very  hours  of  the  day  were  timed  by  the 
Duchessa's  movements,  rather  than  by  the  mere 
minute  portions  of  steel  attached  to  the  face  of  a 
commonplace  watch.    Thus: — 

Dawn.  He  realizes  the  Duchessa's  existence 
when  he  wakes.  (His  dreams  had  been  coloured 
by  her,  but  that's  beside  the  mark.) 

Daybreak.  The  Duchessa  ascends  on  deck  and 
smiles  at  him. 

Breakfast  time.  The  Duchessa  sits  opposite 
to  him. 

The  stmny  morning  hours.  The  Duchessa  sews 
fine  lace;  she  talks,  she  smiles, — the  smile  that 
radiates  through  the  sadness  of  her  eyes. 

And  so  on,  throughout  the  day,  till  the  evening 
gloaming  brings  a  hint  of  further  intimacy  into 
their  conversation,  and  night  falls  as  she  wishes 
him  pleasant  dreams  before  descending  to  her 
cabin. 

He  dwelt  then,  for  the  moment,  solely  in  her 


A  FRIENDSHIP  51 

friendship,  but  vaguely  the  half  articulate  thought 
of  the  future  began  to  stir  within  him,  pulsing  with 
a  secret  possibility  of  joy  he  barely  dared  to 
contemplate. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT  TENERIFFE 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  of  a  sunny  morning  that 
the  Fort  Salisbury  cast  anchor  off  Teneriffe,  pre- 
paratory to  undergoing  the  process  known  as 
coaling. 

Antony,  from  her  decks,  gazed  towards  the  shore 
and  the  buildings  lying  in  the  sunlight.  Minute 
doll-like  figures  were  busy  on  the  land ;  mules,  with 
various  burdens,  were  ascending  the  steep  street. 
Boats  were  already  putting  out  to  the  ship,  to 
carry  ashore  such  passengers  as  desired  to  spend 
a  few  hours  on  land. 

The  whole  scene  was  one  of  movement,  light, 
and  colour.  The  sea,  sky,  and  earth  were  singing 
the  Benedicite,  and  Antony's  heart  echoed  the 
blessings.  It  was  all  so  astonishingly  good  and 
pleasant, — the  clean,  fresh  morning,  the  blue  blue 
of  the  sky,  the  green  blue  of  the  water,  and  the 
possibilities  of  the  unknown  moimtain  land  lying 
before  him. 

There  is  an  extraordinary  fascination  in  ex- 
52 


AT  TENERIFFE  53 

ploring  an  unknown  land,  even  if  the  exploration 
is  to  be  of  somewhat  Umited  duration.  The  ship 
by  which  Antony  had  travelled  to  the  Cape,  had 
sailed  straight  out ;  it  had  passed  the  peak  of  Tene- 
riffe  at  a  distance.  Antony  had  looked  at  it  as 
it  rose  from  the  sea,  like  a  great  purple  amethyst 
half  veiled  in  cloud.  He  had  wondered  then, 
idly  enough,  whether  it  would  ever  be  his  lot  to 
set  foot  upon  its  shores.  Never,  in  his  wildest 
dreams,  had  he  imagined  tmder  what  actual  cir- 
cumstances that  lot  would  be  his.  How  could  he 
have  guessed  at  what  the  fates  were  holding  in 
store  for  him?  They  had  held  their  secret  close, 
giving  him  no  smallest  inkling  of  it.  If  we  dream 
of  paradise,  our  dream  is  modelled  on  the  greatest 
happiness  we  have  known;  therefore,  since  our 
happiness  is,  doubtless,  but  a  rushlight  as  com- 
pared to  the  sunshine  of  paradise,  oiu*  dreams  must 
necessarily  fall  exceedingly  far  short  of  the  reality. 
Hitherto  Antony's  happiness  had  been  largely 
monochrome,  flecked  with  tiny  specks  of  radiance. 
He  might  indeed  have  dreamed  of  something  a 
trifle  brighter,  but  how  was  it  possible  for  him  to 
have  formed  from  them  the  smallest  conception 
of  the  happiness  that  was  awaiting  him? 

"It  is  reaUy  perfect,"  said  a  voice  behind  him, 
echoing  his  thoughts. 

Antony  turned. 

The  Duchessa  had  come  on  deck,  spurred  and 
gauntletted  for  their  adventure, — in  other  words, 
attired  in  a  soft,  black  dress,  a  shady  black  hat  on 


54  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

her  head,  crinkly  black  gloves,  which  reached  to 
the  elbow,  on  her  hands,  and  carrying  a  blue  sun- 
shade. 

"It  is  really  perfect,"  she  repeated,  gazing  to- 
wards the  mountainous  land  before  them,  the  doll- 
like figures  on  the  shore,  the  boats  cleaving  the 
sparkling  waters. 

"Absolutely,"  declared  Antony,  his  eyes  wrink-] 
ling  at  the  comers  in  sheer  delight.  "The  gods 
have  favoured  us. " 

"Is  there  a  boat  ready?"  she  demanded,  eager 
as  a  child  to  start  on  the  adventiire. 

"A  boat,"  said  Antony,  looking  over  the  ship's 
side,  "will  be  with  us  in  a  couple  of  moments  I 
should  say,  to  judge  by  the  strength  of  the  rower's 
arms.  He  has  been  racing  the  other  fellows,  and 
will  be  first  at  his  goal." 

"Then  come,"  she  said.  "Let  us  be  first  too. 
I  don't  want  to  lose  a  minute. " 

Antony  followed  in  her  wake.  Her  sentiments 
most  assuredly  were  his.  It  was  not  a  day  of 
which  to  squander  one  iota. 

Ten  minutes  later  they  were  on  their  way  to  the 
shore.  Behind  them  the  Fort  Salisbury  loomed  up 
large  and  black  from  the  limpid  water;  before  them 
lay  the  land  of  possibilities. 

The  other  passengers  in  the  boat  kept  up  a 
nmning  fire  of  comments.  A  stout  gentleman  in 
a  sun-helmet,  which  he  considered  de  rigeur  as 
long  as  he  was  anywhere  at  all  near  the  regions  of 
Africa,  gazed  towards  the  shore  through  a  pair  of 


AT  TENERIFFE  "55 

field-glasses.  At  intervals  he  made  known  such 
objects  of  interest  as  he  observed,  in  loud  husky- 
asides  to  his  wife,  a  small  meek  woman,  who  clung 
to  him,  metaphorically  speaking,  as  the  ivy  to  the 
oak.  Her  vision  being  unaided  by  field-glasses, 
she  was  tmable  to  follow  his  observations  with  the 
degree  of  intelligence  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  think  I  quite — "  she  remarked  anx- 
iously now  and  again,  blinking  in  the  same  direc- 
tion as  her  spouse. 

"To  the  left,  my  dear,  among  the  trees,"  he 
would  reply.  Or,  "Half-way  up  the  street. 
Now  don't  you  see?"  Or,  removing  the  field- 
glasses  for  a  moment  to  observe  the  direction  of  her 
anxious  blinking,  "Why,  bless  my  soul,  you  aren't 
looking  the  right  way  at  all.  Get  it  in  a  line  with 
that  chimney  over  there,  and  the  yellow  house. 
The  yellow  house.  You're  looking  straight  at  the 
pink  one.     Bless  my  soul,  tut,  tut."    And  so  forth. 

A  small  boy,  leaning  far  over  the  side  of  the 
boat,  gazed  rapturously  into  the  water,  announcing 
in  shrill  tones  that  he  could  see  to  the  very  bottom, 
an  anxious  elder  sister  grasping  the  back  of  his 
jersey  meanwhile.  A  girl  with  a  pigtail  jimiped 
about  in  a  manner  calculated  to  bring  an  abrupt 
and  watery  conclusion  to  the  passage,  till  forcibly 
restrained  by  her  melancholy-looking  father.  A 
yoimg  man  annotmced  that  it  was  going  to  be, 
"Deuced  hot  on  shore,  what?"  And  a  gushing 
young  thing  of  some  forty  summers  appealed  to 
everyone  at  intervals  to  know  the  hour  to  the  very 


56  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

second  it  would  be  necessary  to  return,  since  it 
really  would  be  a  sin  to  keep  the  ship  waiting. 
"While  the  remarks  from  an  elderly  and  cynical 
gentleman,  that,  in  the  event  of  unpunctuality 
on  her  part,  it  would  be  more  probable  that  she 
would  find  herself  waiting  indefinitely  at  Teneriffe, 
caused  her  to  giggle  hysterically,  and  label  him  a 
naughty  man, 

"It  is  a  matter  for  devout  thankfulness,"  said 
the  Duchessa  some  ten  minutes  later,  as  she  and 
Antony  were  walking  across  the  square,  "that  the 
Fort  Salisbury  is  large  enough  to  permit  of  a  cer- 
tain separation  from  one's  fellow  humans.  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  uncharitable,  but  their  proximity 
does  not  always  appeal  to  me. " 

Antony  laughed,  and  tossed  some  coppers  to  a 
small  brown-faced  girl,  who,  clasping  an  infant 
nearly  as  large  as  herself,  jabbered  at  him  in  an 
unknown  but  wholly  understandable  language. 

"You'll  be  besieged  and  bankrupt  before  you 
see  the  ship  again,  if  you  begin  that, "  warned  the 
Duchessa. 

"Quite  possible,"  returned  Antony  smiling. 

The  Duchessa  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  in  that  mood,  warnings  are  waste 
of  breath, "  she  announced. 

"  Quite, "  agreed  Antony,  still  smiling. 

He  was  radiantly,  idiotically  happy.  The  joy 
of  the  morning,  the  brilliance  of  the  sunshine,  and 
the  fact  that  the  Duchessa  was  walking  by  his 
side,  had  gone  to  his  head  like  wine.     If  the  ex- 


AT  TENERIFFE  57 

penditure  of  coppers  could  impart  one  tenth  of  his 
happiness  to  others,  he  would  fling  them  broadcast, 
he  would  be  a  very  spendthrift  with  his  gladness. 

At  the  church  to  the  left  of  the  square,  the 
Duchessa  paused. 

"In  here  first, "  she  said.  And  Antony  followed 
her  up  the  steps. 

They  made  their  way  through  a  swarm  of  grubby 
children,  and  entered  the  porch.  It  was  cool  and 
dark  in  the  church  in  contrast  to  the  heat  and  sun- 
shine without.  Here  and  there  Antony  descried 
a  kneeling  figure, — women  with  handkerchiefs  on 
their  heads,  and  a  big  basket  beside  them;  an  old 
man  or  two;  a  girl  telling  her  beads  before  the  Lady 
Altar;  and  a  small  dark-haired  child,  who  gazed 
stoHdly  at  the  Duchessa.  Votive  candles  burned 
before  the  various  shrines.  The  ruby  lamp  made 
a  spot  of  light  in  the  shadows  above  the  High 
Altar. 

The  Duchessa  dropped  on  one  knee,  and  then 
knelt  for  a  few  moments  at  one  of  the  prie-dieux. 
Antony  watched  her.  He  was  sensible  that  she 
was  not  a  mere  sight-seer.  The  church  held  an 
element  of  home  for  her.  Two  of  the  passengers — • 
the  young  man  and  the  cynical  elderly  gentleman, 
who  had  been  in  the  boat  with  them — strolled  in 
behind  him.  They  gazed  curiously  about,  re- 
marking in  loudish  whispers  on  what  they  saw. 
Antony  felt  suddenly,  and  quite  unreasonably, 
annoyed  at  their  entry.  Somehow  they  detracted 
from  the  harmony  and  peace  of  the  building. 


58  ANTONY  GRAY —GARDENER 

**I  didn't  know  you  were  a  Catholic,"  he  said 
five  minutes  later,  as  he  and  the  Duchessa  emerged 
once  more  into  the  sunlight. 

"You  never  asked  me,"  she  returned  smil- 
ing. 

"No,"  agreed  Antony.  And  then  he  added 
simply,  as  an  afterthought,  "it  didn't  occur  to  me 
to  ask  you. " 

"It  wouldn't,"  responded  the  Duchessa,  a  little 
twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

"No,"  agreed  Antony  again.  "I  wish  those 
people  hadn't  come  in,"  he  added  somewhat 
irrelevantly. 

"What  people?  "  demanded  the  Duchessa.  "  Oh, 
you  mean  those  two  men.  Why  not?  Most 
tourists  visit  the  church. " 

"I  dare  say,"  returned  Antony.  "But — ^well, 
they  didn't  belong." 

"No?"  queried  the  Duchessa  innocently. 

Antony  reddened. 

"You  mean  I  didn't, "  he  said  a  little  stiffly. 

"Ah,  forgive  me."  The  Duchessa's  voice  held 
a  note  of  quick  contrition.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  you.  Somehow  we  Catholics  get  used  to 
Protestants  regarding  oiu*  churches  merely  as  a 
sight  to  be  seen,  and  for  the  moment  I  smiled  to 
think  that  you  should  be  the  one  whom  it  irritated. 
But  I  do  know  what  you  mean,  of  course.  And — 
I'm  glad  you  felt  it. " 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned  smiling. 

The  Uttle  cloud,  which  had  momentarily  dimmed 


AT  TENERIFFE  59 

the  brightness  of  his  sun,  was  dispelled.  The 
merest  inflection  in  the  Duchessa's  voice  had  the 
power  of  casting  him  down  to  depths  of  heart- 
searching  despair,  or  Hfting  him  to  realms  of 
intoxicating  joy.  And  it  must  be  confessed  that 
the  past  fortnight  had  been  spent  almost  continu- 
ously in  these  realms.  Also,  if  he  had  sunk  to  the 
depths  of  despair,  it  was  rather  by  reason  of  an 
ultra-sensitive  imagination  on  his  own  part  than 
by  any  fault  of  the  Duchessa's.  But  then,  as 
Antony  would  have  declared,  the  position  of  a  sub- 
ject to  his  sovereign  is  a  very  different  matter  from 
the  position  of  the  sovereign  to  the  subject.  The 
Duchessa  could  be  certain  of  his  loyalty.  It  was 
for  her  to  give  or  withhold  favours  as  it  pleased  her. 
It  was  a  different  matter  for  him. 

It  is  not  easy  for  a  man,  who  has  lived  a  very 
lonely  life,  to  believe  in  a  reciprocal  friendship 
where  he  himself  is  concerned.  A  curious  admix- 
ttu-e  of  shyness  and  diffidence,  the  outcome  of  his 
lonely  life,  prevented  him  from  imagining  that  the 
Duchessa  could  desire  his  friendship  in  the  smallest 
degree  as  he  desired  hers.  To  him,  the  friend- 
ship she  had  accorded  him  had  become  the  most 
vital  thing  in  his  existence,  quite  apart  from 
that  vague  and  intoxicating  dream,  which  he 
scarcely  dared  to  confess  in  the  faintest  whisper 
to  his  heart.  He  knew  that  her  friendship  ap- 
peared essential  to  his  very  life.  But  how  could  he 
for  one  moment  imagine  that  his  friendship  was 
essential  to  her  ?     It  could  not  be,  though  he  would 


60  ANTON Y  GRA Y— GARDENER 

cheerfully  have  laid  down  his  life  for  her,  have 
undergone  torture  for  her  sake. 

Knowing,  therefore,  that  his  friendship  was 
not  essential  to  her  happiness,  yet  knowing  what 
her  friendship  meant  to  him,  he  was  as  ultra-sen- 
sitive as  a  lonely  child.  His  soul  sprang  forward 
to  receive  her  gifts,  but  the  merest  imagined  hint 
of  a  rebuff  would  have  sent  him  back  to  that  loneli- 
ness he  had  learned  to  look  upon  as  his  birthright. 
Not  that  he  would  have  gone  back  to  that  loneli- 
ness with  a  hurt  sense  of  injury.  That  must  be 
clearly  understood  to  understand  Antony.  To 
have  felt  injury,  would  have  been  tantamount  to 
saying  that  he  had  had  a  right  to  the  friendship, 
and  it  was  just  this  very  right  that  Antony  could 
not  realize  as  in  the  least  existent.  He  would  have 
gone  back  with  an  ache,  it  is  true,  but  with  a  brave 
face,  and  an  overwhelming  and  life-long  gratitude 
for  the  temporary  joy.  That  is  at  the  present 
moment;  of  later,  one  cannot  feel  so  certain. 

To-day,  however,  loneliness  seemed  a  thing 
unthinkable,  unimaginable,  with  the  Duchessa  by 
his  side,  and  the  golden  day  ahead  of  him.  By 
skilled  manoeuvring,  and  avoiding  the  recognized 
hours  of  meal-time,  they  managed  to  escape  further 
contact  with  their  fellow  passengers. 

An  exceedingly  late  luncheon  hour  found  them 
the  sole  occupants  of  a  small  courtyard  at  the  back 
of  an  hotel, — a  courtyard  set  with  round  tables, 
and  orange  trees  in  green  tubs.  Over  the  roofs 
of  the  houses,  and  far  below  them,  they  could  see 


AT  TENERIFFE  6i 

the  shining  water,  and  the  Fort  Salisbury ,  lying  like 
a  dark  blob  on  its  surface.  Boats  bearing  coal  were 
still  putting  out  to  her,  and  men  were  busy  hauling 
it  over  her  sides. 

The  Duchessa  looked  down  on  the  ship  and  the 
water. 

"It  is  queer  to  think,"  said  she  smiling,  "that 
little  more  than  a  week  hence,  I  shall  be  in  Scot- 
land, and,  probably,  shivering  in  furs.  It  can  be 
exceedingly  chilly  up  there,  even  as  late  as  May.'* 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  your  old  home,** 
said  Antony. 

"So  I  am,"  she  repHed,  "but  not  till  nearly  the 
end  of  June.  I  am  going  to  stay  with  friends  in 
Edinburgh  first.     Where  are  you  going  ? " 

Antony  lifted  his  shoulders  in  the  merest  sus- 
picion of  a  shrug. 

"London  first,"  he  responded.  "After that — 
well,  it's  on  the  knees  of  the  gods." 

"Are  you  likely  to  stay  in  England  long?"  she 
asked.  And  then  she  added  quickly,  "You  don't 
think  the  question  an  impertinence,  I  hope." 

' '  Why  should  I  ? "  he  answered  smiling.  ' '  But  I 
really  don't  know  yet  myself.  It  will  depend  on 
various  things." 

There  was  a  little  silence. 

"In  any  case,  I  shall  see  you  before  I  leave 
England  again,  if  I  may, "  he  said.  "That  is,  if  I 
do  leave." 

The  Duchessa  was  still  looking  at  the  water. 

"I  hope  you  will,"  she  replied.     And  then  she 


62  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

turned  towards  him.  "I  don't  want  our  friend- 
ship to  end  completely  with  the  voyage. " 

Antony's  heart  gave  a  little  leap. 

"It — it  really  is  a  friendship?"  he  asked. 

"Hasn't  it  been?"  she  asked  him. 

Antony  looked  at  her. 

"For  me,  yes, "  he  replied  steadily. 

"Can  a  friendship  be  one-sided? "  she  demanded. 
She  emphasised  the  word  a  little. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Antony  whimsically.  "I 
don't  know  much  about  them.  I  haven't  ever 
wanted  one  before." 

Again  there  was  a  little  silence.    Then: 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Duchessa. 

Antony  drew  a  long  breath.  They  were  such 
simple  little  words;  and  yet,  to  him,  they  meant 
more  than  the  longest  and  most  flowery  of  speeches. 
There  was  so  infinitely  more  conveyed  in  them. 
And  he  knew  that,  if  they  had  not  been  meant, 
they  would  not  have  been  spoken.  She  did  think 
his  friendship  worth  while,  and  she  had  given  him 
hers.  It  was  all  his  heart  dared  ask  at  the  moment, 
yet,  deep  within  it,  his  secret  hope  stirred  to 
fuller  life.  And  then,  suddenly,  prompted  by 
some  instinct,  quite  unexplainable  at  the  moment, 
he  put  a  question. 

"What  is  the  foundation  of  friendship?"  he 
asked. 

"Trust,"  she  responded  quickly,  her  eyes  meet- 
ing his  for  a  moment.  ' '  And  here, ' *  she  said,  look- 
ing towards  the  hotel, ' '  comes  our  lunch. " 


AT  TENERIFFE  63 

It  was  sunset  before  the  Fort  Salisbury  was 
once  more  cleaving  her  way  through  the  water. 
Antony,  from  her  decks,  looked  once  more  at  the 
receding  land.  Again  he  saw  it  rising,  like  a 
purple  amethyst,  from  the  sea,  but  this  time  it  was 
veiled  in  the  rose-coloured  Kght  of  the  sinking  sun. 
He  looked  towards  that  portion  of  the  amethyst 
where  the  little  courtyard  with  the  orange  trees  ia 
green  tubs  was  situated. 

Once  more  he  heard  his  question  and  the 
Duchessa's  answer.  It  was  a  memory  which  was 
to  remain  with  him  for  many  a  month. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ENGLAND 

A  WEEK  later,  Antony  was  sitting  in  a  first- 
class  carriage  on  his  way  from  Plymouth  to  Water- 
loo. He  gazed  through  the  window,  his  mind 
filled  with  various  emotions. 

Uppermost  was  the  memory  of  the  voyage  and 
the  Duchessa.  The  memory  already  appeared  to 
him  almost  as  a  vivid  and  extraordinarily  beautifiil 
dream,  though  reason  assured  him  to  the  contrary. 
The  whole  events  of  the  last  month,  and  even  his 
present  position  in  the  train,  appeared  to  him 
intangible  and  imreal.  It  seemed  a  dream  self, 
rather  than  the  real  Antony,  who  was  gazing 
from  the  window  at  the  landscape  which  was  slip- 
ping past  him;  who  was  looking  out  on  the  English 
fields,  the  English  woods,  and  the  English  cottages 
past  which  the  train  was  tearing.  He  saw  gardens 
ablaze  with  flowers;  bushes  snowy  with  hawthorn; 
horses  and  cows  standing  idly  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees;  and,  now  and  again,  small,  trimly-kept 
country  stations,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  prim 
schoolgirls  in  gay  print  dresses. 

He  glanced  from  the  window  to  the  rack  opposite 
64 


ENGLAND  65 

to  him,  where  his  portmanteau  was  lying.  That, 
at  all  events,  was  tangible,  real,  and  familiar.  It 
struck  the  sole  familiar  note  in  the  extraordinary 
unfamiliarity  of  everything  around  him.  He 
looked  at  his  own  initials  painted  on  it,  slowly 
tracing  them  in  his  mind.  He  pulled  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  took  from  it  the  letter  which  had 
altered  the  whole  perspective  of  his  life.  He 
could  almost  see  the  African  stoep  as  he  looked 
at  it,  feel  the  heat  of  the  African  sun,  hear  the 
occasional  chirping  of  the  grasshoppers.  Age-old 
the  memory  appeared,  caught  from  bygone  cen- 
turies. And  it  was  only  a  month  ago.  Replac- 
ing it  in  the  book,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  small  piece  of 
pasteboard.  The  Duchessa  had  given  it  to  him 
that  morning.  Her  name  was  printed  on  it,  and 
below  she  had  written  a  few  pencilled  words, — ■ 
her  address  in  Scotland.  She  was  remaining  in 
Plymouth  for  a  day  or  so,  before  going  North. 
He  was  to  write  to  her  at  the  Scotland  address, 
and  let  her  know  where  she  could  acquaint  him 
with  her  fmther  movements,  and  the  actual  date 
of  her  return  to  the  Manor  House.  That,  too, 
was  tangible  and  real, — that  small  piece  of  white 
pasteboard.  And,  then,  a  little  movement  beside 
him,  and  a  long  quivering  sigh  of  content  brought 
back  to  him  the  most  tangible  thing  of  all — 
Josephus.  Josephus,  who  was  sleeping  the  sleep 
of  the  contented,  just  after  a  frenzied  and  raptiu:- 
ous  reunion  with  his  deity. 

Oh,  of  course  it  was  all  real,  and  it  was  he. 


'66  '  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Antony,  his  very  self,  who  was  sitting  in  the  train, 
the  train  which  was  rushing  through  the  good  old 
English  country,  carrying  him  towards  London  and 
the  answer  to  the  riddle  contained  in  that  most 
amazing  of  letters. 

"It  isn't  a  dream,  Josephus,"  he  assured  the 
sleepy  puppy.  "I  am  real,  you  are  real,  the 
train  is  real,  England  is  real,  and  Heaven  be 
praised — the  Duchessa  is  real."  After  which  act 
of  assurance  he  turned  his  attention  once  more  to 
the  window. 

And  now,  the  dream  sense  dispelled,  he  foimd 
long-forgotten  memories  awaken  within  him, 
memories  of  early  boyhood,  aroused  by  the  sight 
of  some  old  church  tower,  of  some  wood  lying  on  a 
hillside,  of  some  amber  stream  rippling  past  rush- 
grown  banks.  He  hugged  the  memories  to  his  soul, 
rejoicing  in  them.  They  brought  a  dozen  trivial 
little  incidents  to  his  mind.  He  could  hear  his  old 
niurse's  voice  warning  him  not  to  lean  against 
the  door  of  the  carriage.  He  could  feel  his  small 
nose  pressed  against  the  window-pane,  his  small 
hand  rubbing  the  glass  where  it  had  been  dimmed 
by  his  breath.  He  could  hear  the  crackle  of 
paper  bags,  as  sandwiches  and  buns  were  pro- 
duced for  his  refreshment;  he  could  taste  the 
ham  between  the  pieces  of  bread  and  butter; 
and  he  could  see  a  small  boy,  with  one  eye  on 
his  nurse,  pushing  a  piece  of  fat  between  the 
cushions  of  the  seat  and  the  side  of  the  carriage. 
This    last    memory    evoked  a  little    chuckle  of 


ENGLAND  67 

laughter.  That  nurse  had  been  a  strong  dis- 
ciplinarian. 

The  memories  linked  together,  forming  a  more 
connected  whole.  He  recalled  places  farther  afield 
than  those  caught  sight  of  from  the  window  of 
the  train.  He  remembered  a  copse  yellow  with 
primroses,  a  pond  where  he  had  fished  for  stickle- 
backs, a  bank  with  a  robin's  nest  in  it.  He 
remembered  a  later  visit  with  an  aunt.  He  must 
then  have  been  fourteen  or  thereabouts.  There 
had  been  a  small  girl,  staying  with  her  aunt  at  a 
neighbouring  farm,  who  had  accompanied  him  on 
his  rambles.  Despite  her  tender  age — she  couldn't 
have  been  more  than  five  years  old — she  had  been 
the  inventor  of  their  worst  escapades.  It  was  she 
who  had  egged  him  on  to  the  attempt  to  cross  the 
pond  on  a  log  of  wood,  racing  round  it  to  shout 
encouragement  from  the  opposite  side.  The 
timely  advent  of  one  of  the  farm-labourers  alone 
had  saved  him  from  a  watery  grave.  It  was  she 
who  had  invented  the  bows  and  arrows  with  which 
he  had  accidentally  shot  the  prize  bantam,  and  it 
was  she  who  had  insisted  on  his  going  with  her  to 
search  for  pheasants*  eggs,  a  crime  for  which  he 
barely  escaped  the  penalty  of  the  law. 

He  remembered  her  as  a  fragile  fair-haired  child, 
with  a  wide-eyed  innocence  of  expression,  utterly 
at  variance  with  her  true  character.  In  spite  of 
her  nobly  shouldering  her  full  share  of  the  blame, 
he  had  invariably  been  considered  sole  culprit, 
which  he  most  assuredly  was  not,  though  weight 


68  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

of  years  should  have  taught  him  better.  But  then, 
one  could  hardly  expect  the  Olympians  to  lay  any 
measure  of  such  crimes  at  the  door  of  a  grey-eyed, 
fair-haired  angel.  And  that  was  what  she  had 
appeared  to  mere  superficial  observation.  It 
required  extreme  perspicacity  of  vision,  or  great 
intimacy,  to  arrive  at  anything  a  trifle  nearer  the 
truth.  He  sought  in  the  recesses  of  his  memory 
for  her  name.  That  it  had  suited  her  admirably, 
and  that  it  was  monosyllabic,  was  all  he  could  re- 
member. After  a  few  minutes  fruitless  search,  he 
abandoned  it  as  hopeless,  and  pulled  pipe  and 
tobacco  pouch  from  his  pocket. 

Presently  he  saw  the  square  tower  and  pinnacles 
of  Exeter  Cathedral  above  some  trees,  and  the 
train  ran  into  the  station.  Antony  watched  the 
people  on  the  platform  with  interest.  They  were 
English,  and  it  was  thirteen  years  since  he  had 
been  in  England.  He  listened  to  the  fragmentary 
English  sentences  he  heard,  finding  pleasure  in  the 
sound.  He  marvelled  idly  at  the  lack  of  coloiu-  in 
the  scene  before  him.  The  posters  on  the  walls 
alone  struck  a  flamboyant  note.  Yet  there  was 
something  restful  in  the  monochrome  of  the  dresses, 
the  dull  smoke-griminess  of  the  station.  At  all 
events  it  was  a  contrast  to  the  vivid  colouring  of 
the  African  veldt. 

Despite  his  interest  in  his  fellow  humans,  how- 
ever, he  foimd  himself  devoutly  trusting  his  pri- 
vacy would  remain  undisturbed,  and  it  was  with  a 
sense  of  relief  that  he  felt  the  train  glide  slowly  out 


ENGLAND  69 

of  the  station,  leaving  him  the  sole  occupant  of  his 
compartment. 

Later,  he  saw  the  spire  of  Salisbury  Cathedral. 
Again  fortune  favoured  him  in  the  matter  of  pri- 
vacy, and  presently  drowsiness  descended  on  his 
eyelids,  which  was  not  fully  dispelled  till  the  train 
ran  into  the  gloom  of  Waterloo  station. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  AMAZING  CONDITIONS 

The  offices  of  Messrs.  Parsons  and  Glieve, 
solicitors,  are  situated  off  the  Strand,  and  within 
seven  minutes'  walk  of  Covent  Garden.  It  is  an 
old-established  and  exceedingly  respectable  firm. 
Its  respectability  is  emphasized  by  the  massiveness 
of  its  furniture  and  the  age  of  its  office  boy.  He 
is  fifty,  if  he  is  a  day.  An  exceeding  slowness  of 
brain  prevented  him  from  rising  to  a  more  exalted 
position,  a  position  to  which  his  quite  extraordin- 
ary conscientiousness  and  honesty  would  have 
entitled  him.  That  same  conscientiousness  and 
honesty  prevented  him  from  being  superseded  by 
a  more  juvenile  individual,  when  his  age  had 
passed  the  limit  usually  accorded  to  office  boys. 
Imperceptibly  almost,  he  became  part  and  parcel 
of  the  firm,  a  thing  no  more  to  be  dispensed  with 
than  the  brass  plate  outside  the  office.  He  ap- 
peared now  as  an  elderly  and  exceedingly  reput- 
able butler,  and  his  appearance  quite  enormously 
increased  the  respectability  of  the  firm. 

Nominally  James  Glieve  and  Henry  Parsons 
70 


THE  AMAZING  CONDITIONS  71 

were  partners  of  equal  standing,  neither  claiming 
seniority  to  the  other;  virtually  James  Glieve 
was  the  voice,  Henry  Parsons  the  echo.  In 
matters  of  great  importance,  they  received  clients 
in  company,  Henry  Parsons  playing  the  part  of 
Greek  chorus  to  James  Glieve's  lead.  In  matters 
of  less  importance,  they  each  had  their  own 
particular  clients;  but  it  is  very  certain  that, 
even  thus,  Henry  Parsons  invariably  echoed 
the  voice.  It  merely  meant  that  the  voice  had 
sounded  in  private,  while  the  echo  was  heard  in 
public. 

When  George,  the  ofEce-boy-butler,  presented 
James  Glieve  with  a  small  piece  of  pasteboard,  on 
the  morning  following  Antony's  arrival  in  town, 
with  the  statement  that  the  gentleman  was  in  the 
waiting-room,  James  GHeve  requested  the  instant 
presence  of  Henry  Parsons,  prior  to  the  introduc- 
tion of  Antony.  From  which  token  it  will  be 
justly  observed  that  the  matter  in  hand  was  of 
importance.  In  James  Glieve's  eyes  it  was  of 
extreme  importance,  and  that  by  reason  of  its 
being  extremely  unusual. 

Some  six  weeks  previously  an  imknown  client 
had  made  his  appearance  in  the  person  of  a  big 
clean-shaven  man,  by  name  Doctor  Hilary  St. 
John.  Henry  Parsons  happened,  this  time  quite 
by  accident,  to  be  present  at  the  interview.  The 
big  man  had  made  certain  statements  in  an 
exceedingly  business-like  manner,  and  had  then 
requested  Messrs.  Parsons  and  Glieve  to  act  on  his 


72  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

behalf,  or,  rather,  on  behalf  of  the  person  for 
whom  he  was  emissary. 

"But,  bless  my  soul, "  James  Glieve  had  boomed 
amazed,  on  the  conclusion  of  the  request,  "I 
never  heard  such  a  thing  in  my  life.  It — I  am  not 
at  all  sure  that  it  is  legal. " 

"Not  at  all  sure  that  it  is  legal,"  Henry  Parsons 
had  echoed. 

The  big  man  had  laughed,  recapitulated  his 
statements,  and  urged  his  point. 

"I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  done,"  James  Glieve 
had  responded  obstinately. 

"It  can't  be  done,"  the  echo  had  repeated  with 
even  greater  asstu-ance  than  the  voice. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  can,"  Doctor  Hilary  had  replied 
with  greater  assurance  still.  * '  See  here —  "  and  he 
had  begun  all  over  again. 

"Tut,  tut,"  James  Glieve  had  clucked  on  the 
conclusion  of  the  third  recital.  "You've  said  all 
that  before.  I  tell  you,  man,  the  whole  business 
is  too  unusual.  It — I'm  sure  it  isn't  legal.  And 
anyhow  it's  mad.  What's  the  name  of  your — er, 
your  deceased  friend?" 

"The  name?"  piped  Henry  Parsons. 

"Nicholas  Danver,"  had  been  the  brief  re- 
sponse. 

"Nicholas  Danver!"  James  Glieve  had  almost 
shouted  the  words.  "Nicholas  Danver!  God 
bless  my  soul ! ' '  And  he  had  leant  back  in  his  chair 
and  shaken  with  laughter.  Henry  Parsons,  true 
to  his  r61e,  had  chuckled  at  intervals,  but  feebly. 


THE  AMAZING  CONDITIONS  73 

For  the  life  of  him  he  could  see  no  cause  for 
mirth. 

"Oh,  Nick,  Nick,"  sighed  James  Glieve,  wiping 
his  eyes  after  a  few  minutes,  "I  always  vowed 
you'd  be  the  death  of  me.  To  think  of  you  turn- 
ing up  in  the  life  of  a  staid  elderly  solicitor  at  this 
hour." 

Henry  Parsons  stared.  And  this  time  his  voice 
found  no  echo. 

"Well,  Doctor,"  said  James  Glieve,  stuffing 
his  handkerchief  back  into  his  pocket,  "I  suppose 
I — "  he  broke  off.  "This  is  a  most  respectable 
firm  of  solicitors,"  he  remarked  suddenly  and 
almost  fiercely.  "We'd  never  dream  of  stooping 
to  anything  approaching  fraud. " 

' '  Not  dream  of  it, "  echoed  Henry. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Doctor  Hilary  heartily. 
"But  this " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  daresay,  I  daresay.  Now  then, 
what  are  your  propositions?" 

"Your  propositions?"  echoed  Henry. 

And  a  fourth  time  Doctor  Hilary  repeated  them. 

At  the  end  of  a  lengthy  interview,  James  Glieve 
opened  the  door  of  his  sanctum  to  show  Doctor 
Hilary  out. 

"You  might  give  my  kindest  remembrances — ** 
he  stopped.  "Bless  my  soul,  I  was  just  going  to 
send  my  remembrances  to  old  Nick,  and  we've 
been  spending  the  last  hour  settling  up  his  will. 
Where's  my  memory  going!  I  shall  probably  run 
down  in  a  few  days,  and  go  through  matters  with 


74  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

you  on  the  spot.     A — er,  a  melancholy  pleasure 
to  see  the  old  place  again.     What?" 

Henry  Parsons,  within  the  room,  lost  this  last 
speech;  therefore  it  found  no  echo. 

When  Antony  entered  the  private  sanctimi  of 
James  GUeve,  he  saw  a  stout  red-faced  man, 
with  a  suspicion  of  side  whiskers  and  a  slight 
appearance  of  ferocity,  seated  at  a  desk.  On 
his  right,  and  insignificant  by  comparison, 
was  a  small  grey-haired  and  rather  dried-up 
man. 

"Mr.  Antony  Gray?"  queried  the  red-faced 
man,  looking  at  Antony  over  his  spectacles. 

Antony  bowed. 

"You  come  in  answer  to  our  communication 
regarding  the  will  of  the — er,  late  Mr.  Nicholas 
Danver?"  asked  James  Glieve. 

"I  do,"  responded  Antony.  And  he  drew 
the  said  communication  from  his  pocket,  and  laid 
it  on  the  table. 

James  GHeve  glanced  at  it.  Then  he  leant 
back  in  his  chair,  put  his  elbows  on  its  arms,  and 
placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together. 

"The — er,  the  conditions  of  the  will  are  some- 
what imusual, "  he  announced.  "It  is  my  duty  to 
set  them  plainly  before  you.  Should  you  refuse 
them,  we  are  to  see  that  you  are  fully  recompensed 
for  any  expense  and  inconvenience  your  journey 
will  have  entailed.  Should  you,  on  the  other 
hand,  accept  them,  it  is  imderstood  that  as  a  man 


THE  AMAZING  CONDITIONS  75 

of  honour  you  will  fulfil  the  conditions  exactly, 
not  only  in  the  letter,  but  in  the  spirit. " 

"In  the  spirit, "  echoed  Henry  Parsons. 

Antony  bowed  in  silence. 

"Of  course,  should  you  fail  in  your  contract,**: 
went  on  James  Glieve,  "the  will  becomes  null  and 
void.  But  it  would  be  quite  possible  for  you  to 
keep  to  the  contract  in  the  letter,  while  breaking  it 
merely  in  the  spirit,  in  which  case  probably  no  one 
but  yourself  would  be  aware  that  it  had  been  so 
broken.  You  will  not  be  asked  to  sign  any  pro- 
mise in  the  matter.  You  will  only  be  asked  to  give 
your  word. " 

"To  give  your  word,"  said  Henry  Parsons, 
looking  solemnly  at  Antony. 

"Yes,"  said  Antony  quietly. 

James  Glieve  piilled  a  paper  towards  him. 

"The  conditions,"  he  announced,  "are  as 
follows.  I  am  about  to  read  what  the — er,  late 
Mr.  Nicholas  Danver  has  himself  written  regard- 
ing the  matter." 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and  pushed  his  spectacles 
back  on  his  nose. 

Antony  looked  directly  at  him.  In  spite  of 
the  business-like  appearance  of  the  room,  the 
business-like  attitude  of  the  two  men  opposite 
to  him,  he  stUl  felt  that  odd  Arabian  Nights* 
entertainment  sensation.  The  room  and  its  occu- 
pants seemed  to  be  masquerading  under  a  busi- 
ness garb;  it  seemed  to  need  but  one  word — if  he 
could  have  found  it — to  metamorphose  the  whole 


76  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

thing  back  to  its  original  and  true  conditions,  to 
change  the  room  into  an  Aladdin's  cave,  and  the 
two  men  into  a  friendly  giant  and  an  attendant 
dwarf.  The  only  thing  he  could  not  see  meta- 
morphosed was  George,  the  office-boy-butler.  He 
retained  his  own  appearance  and  personality. 
He  appeared  to  have  been  brought — as  a  human 
boy,  possibly — into  the  entertainment,  and  to 
have  grown  up  imperturbably  in  it.  Though 
quite  probably,  under  his  present  respectable 
demeanour,  he  was  well  aware  of  the  true  state  of 
affairs,  and  was  laughing  inwardly  at  it. 

James  GHeve  cleared  his  throat  a  second  time, 
and  began. 

"The  conditions  under  which  I  make  the  afore- 
said Antony  Gray  my  heir,"  he  read,  "are  as 
follows.  He  will  not  enter  into  possession  of 
either  property  or  money  for  one  year  precisely 
from  the  day  of  hearing  these  conditions.  He 
shall  give  his  word  of  honour  to  make  known  to  no 
person  whatsoever  that  he  is  my  heir.  He  shall 
live,  during  the  said  year,  in  a  furnished  cottage 
on  the  estate,  the  cottage  to  be  designated  to  him 
by  my  friend  Doctor  Hilary  St.  John.  He  will 
tmdertake  that  he  lives  in  that  cottage  and  no- 
where else,  not  even  for  a  day.  He  will  Hve 
as  an  ordinary  labourer.  That  this  may  be  facili- 
tated he  will  have  a  post  as  one  of  the  imder- 
gardeners  in  the  gardens  of  Chorley  Old  Hall. 
Golding,  the  head-gardener,  will  instruct  him  in 


THE  AMAZING  CONDITIONS  77 

his  duties.  He  will  be  paid  one  pound  sterling 
per  week  as  wage,  and  he  shall  pay  a  rent  of  five 
shillings  per  week  for  the  cottage.  He  will  under- 
take to  use  no  income''or  capital  of  his  own  during 
the  said  year,  nor  receive  any  help  or  money  from 
friends.  Briefly,  he  will  luidertake  to  make  the 
one  pound  per  week,  which  he  will  earn  as  wage, 
suffice  for  his  needs.  He  will  take  the  name  of 
Michael  Field  for  one  year,  and  neither  directly  nor 
indirectly  will  he  acquaint  any  one  whomsoever 
with  the  fact  that  it  is  a  pseudonym.  In  short,  he 
will  do  all  in  his  power  to  give  the  impression  to 
everyone  that  he  is  simply  and  solely  Michael  Field, 
working-man,  and  tmder-gardener  at  Chorley  Old 
Hall. 

"He  will  make  his  decision  in  the  matter  within 
twenty-four  hours,  and,  should  his  decision  be  in 
the  affirmative,  he  will  bind  himself,  as  a  man  of 
honour  to  abide  by  it.  And,  further,  he  will  pro- 
ceed to  Byestry  within  one  week  of  the  decision,  to 
take  up  his  duties,  and  his  residence  in  the  afore- 
said cottage. 

"Nicholas  Danver. 
"The  fifth^day  of;;March, 

nineteen  himdred  and  eleven." 

James  Glieve  stopped.  He  did  not  look  at 
Antony,  but  at  the  paper,  which  he  placed  on  the 
desk  in  front  of  him. 

"Hmm, "  said  Antony  quietly  and  rumina- 
tively. 


78  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

"  **You  have  twenty-four  hours  in  which  to  make 
your  decision,"  said  James  GHeve. 

"Twenty-four  hours, "  said  Henry  Parsons. 

"I  think  that's  as  well,"  returned  Antony. 
He  wasjstill  feeHng  the  quite  absurd  desire  to  find 
the  word  which  should  metamorphose  the  scene 
before  him  to  its  true  conditions. 

"I  told  you  the  terms  of  the  will  were  unusual, " 
said  James  Glieve. 

"Very  unusual,"  emphasized  Henry  Parsons. 

"They  are,"  said  Antony  dryly.  Then  he  got 
up  from  his  chair.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
"Well,  Mr.  Glieve,  it  is  twelve  o'clock.  I  will  let 
you  know  my  decision  by  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning.  That,  I  believe,  will  entirely  fulfil  the 
conditions?" 

"Entirely,"  said  James  Glieve. 

"Entirely,"  echoed  Henry  Parsons. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  DECISION 

As  soon  as  Antony  left  the  office,  he  walked 
down  into  the  Strand,  where  he  took  an  omnibus  as 
far  as  Pimlico.  There  he  dismounted,  and  made 
his  way  to  the  embankment,  intending  to  walk 
back  to  his  rooms  in  Chelsea.  He  had  spent  the 
previous  evening  hunting  for  rooms  solely  on 
Josephus's  account.  Dogs,  and  more  especially 
puppies,  are  not  welcomed  at  hotels;  also,  Antony 
considered  the  terms  demanded  for  this  special 
puppy's  housing  and  maintenance  entirely  dis- 
proportionate to  Josephus's  size  and  require- 
ments. 

As  he  walked  along  the  embankment  he  reviewed 
the  situation  and  conditions  recently  placed  before 
him.  At  first  sight  they  appeared  almost  amus- 
ing and  absurd.  The  whole  thing  presented  itself 
to  the  mind  in  the  light  of  some  huge  joke;  and 
yet,  behind  the  joke,  lay  a  curious  sense  of  inexor- 
ableness.  At  first  he  did  not  in  the  least  realize 
what  caused  this  sense,  he  was  merely  oddly  aware 
of  its  existence.     He  walked  with  his  eyes  on 

79 


8o  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

the  river,  watching  a  couple  of  slowly  moving 
barges. 

It  was  a  still,  sunny  day.  The  trees  on  the 
embankment  were  in  full  leaf.  Scarlet  and  yellow 
tulips  bedecked  the  window-boxes  in  the  houses 
on  his  right.  An  occasional  group  of  somewhat 
grubby  children,  generally  accompanied  by  an 
elder  sister  and  a  baby  in  a  perambulator,  now  and 
again  occupied  a  seat.  A  threadbare  and  melan- 
choly-looking man  flung  pieces  of  bread  to  a  horde 
of  sea-gulls.  Antony  watched  them  screaming 
and  whirHng  as  they  snatched  at  the  food.  They 
brought  the  Fort  Salisbury  to  his  mind.  And 
then,  in  a  sudden  flash  of  illumination,  he  saw 
precisely  wherein  that  sense  of  inexorableness  lay. 
With  the  realization  his  heart  stood  still;  and,  with 
it,  for  the  same  brief  second,  his  feet.  The  next 
instant  he  had  quickened  his  steps,  fighting  out 
the  new  idea  which  had  come  to  him. 
;  It  was  not  till  he  had  reached  his  rooms,  and 
partaken  of  a  lunch  of  cold  meat  and  salad,  that  he 
had  reduced  it  to  an  entirely  business-like  state- 
ment. Then,  in  the  depths  of  an  armchair,  and 
fortified  by  a  pipe,  he  marshalled  it  in  its  some- 
what crude  form  before  his  brain.  Briefly,  it 
reduced  itself  to  the  following : — 

Should  he  refuse  the  conditions  attached  to 
the  will,  he  remained  in  exactly  the  same  position 
in  which  he  had  found  himself  some  four  or  five 
weeks  previously ;  namely,  in  the  position  of  owner 
of  a  small  farm  on  the  African  veldt,  which  farm 


THE  DECISION  8i 

brought  him  in  an  income  of  some  two  hundred  a 
year.  In  that  position  the  dream,  which  had 
dawned  within  his  heart  on  the  Fort  Salisbury, 
would  be  impossible  of  fulfilment.  His  life  and 
that  of  the  Duchessa  di  Donatello  must  lie  miles 
apart,  separated  both  by  lack  of  money  and  the 
ocean.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  accepted  the 
conditions,  a  year  must  elapse  before  he  made  that 
dream  known  to  her;  and — and  here  lay  the  mean- 
ing of  that  sense  of  inexorableness  he  had  experi- 
enced— ^he  could  give  her  no  explanation  of  the 
extraordinary  situation  in  which  he  would  find 
himself,  a  situation  truly  calculated  to  create  any 
amoimt  of  misimderstanding.  To  all  appearances 
the  adventure  on  which  he  had  started  out  had 
brought  him  to  an  impasse,  a  blind  alley,  from 
which  there  was  no  favourable  issue  of  any  kind. 

"The  whole  thing  is  a  deuced  muddle," 
he :  announced  gloomily,  addressing  himself  to 
Josephus. 

Josephus  put  his  paws  on  Antony's  knees,  and 
Hcked  the  hand  which  was  not  holding  the  pipe. 

"To  refuse  the  conditions,"  went  on  Antony 
aloud,  and  still  gloomily,  and  stroking  Josephus 's 
head,  "is  to  bring  matters  to  an  absolute  deadlock, 
one  from  which  I  can  never  by  the  remotest  atom 
of  chance  extricate  myself.  To  accept  them — 
well,  I  don't  see  much  better  chance  there.  How 
on  earth  am  I  to  explain  the  situation  to  her? 
How  on  earth  will  she  understand  the  fact  that  I 
remain  in  England,  and  make  no  attempt  to  see  her 

6 


82  ANTONY  GRAY,-CARDENER 

for  a  year?  I  can't  even  hint  at  the  situation. 
Oh,  it's  preposterous !  But  to  accept  gives  me  the 
only  possible  faintest  hope." 

And  then,  suddenly,  a  memory  sprang  to  life 
within  his  soul.  He  saw  again  a  courtyard  set 
with  small  round  tables  and  orange  trees  in  green 
tubs.     He  heard  his  own  voice  putting  a  question. 

"What  is  the  foundation  of  friendship?"  it 
asked. 

"Trust,"  came  the  reply,  in  the  Duchessa's 
voice. 

Yet,  was  her  friendship  strong  enough  to  trust 
him  in  such  a  matter  ?  Strong  enough  not  to  misun- 
derstand his  silence,  his — ^his  oddness  in  the  whole 
business?  And  yet,  was  it  not  something  like  a 
confession  of  weakness  of  friendship  on  his  own 
part,  to  question  the  endurance  of  hers?  She  had 
said  they  were  friends.  Perhaps  the  very  test  of 
the  strength  of  his  own  friendship  was  to  He  in  his 
trust  of  the  strength  of  hers.  And,  at  all  events,  he 
could  write  her  some  kind  of  a  letter,  something 
that  would  tell  her  of  his  utter  inability  to  see  her, 
even  though  he  might  not  give  the  smallest  hint  of 
what  that  inability  was.  At  least  he  could  let  her 
perceive  it  was  by  no  wish  of  his  own  that  he 
stayed  away. 

Hope  revived  within  his  heart.  On  the  one 
hand  there  would  be  temporary  banishment, 
truly.  But  it  would  be  infinitely  preferable  to  life- 
long exile.  A  year,  after  all,  was  only  a  year.  To 
him  the  moments  might,  nay  would,  drag  on  leaden 


THE  DECISION  83 

feet;  but  to  her  it  would  be  but  as  other  years,  and, 
ordinarily  speaking,  they  speed  by  at  an  astonish- 
ing rate.  He  must  look  to  that  assurance  for  com- 
fort. A  Httle  odd  snule  twisted  his  lips.  What, 
after  all,  did  a  grey  year  signify  to  him,  as  long 
as  its  greyness  did  not  touch  her.  And  why 
should  it?  The  fact  of  his  absence  could  not 
possibly  bring  the  same  blank  to  her  as  it  would 
to  him.  She  might  wonder  a  little,  she  might 
even  question.  But  had  not  she  herself  spoken  of 
trust  ? 

With  the  memory  of  that  one  word  for  his  en- 
coiiragement,  he  took  his  resolution  in  both  hands 
and  made  his  decision. 

Perhaps,  if  Antony  had  attempted  to  pen  his 
letter  to  the  Duchessa  before  making  his  decision, 
he  might  have  hesitated  regarding  making  it.  It 
was,  however,  not  till  the  evening  before  he  left 
town  to  take  up  his  new  life,  that  he  attempted  to 
write  to  her.  Then  he  discovered  the  extraordin- 
ary difficulty  of  putting  into  anything  like  coherent 
and  convincing  words  the  statement  he  had  to 
make.  He  drafted  at  least  a  dozen  attempts,  each, 
to  his  mind,  more  unsatisfactory  than  the  last. 
Finally  he  wrote  as  follows: 

*'Dear  Duchessa: 

"Since  I  said  good-bye  to  you  at  Plymouth,  my 
affairs  have  undergone  unexpected  and  quite  un- 
foreseen changes.     As  matters  stand  at  present,  I 


84  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

shall  be  remaining  in  England  for  some  time.  I  had 
hoped  to  see  you  when  you  returned  from  Scotland, 
but  find,  deeply  to  my  regret,  that  I  will  be  unable 
to  do  so,  for  a  considerable  time  at  all  events. 
Need  I  tell  you  that  this  is  a  great  disappointment 
to  me?  I  had  been  looking  forward  to  seeing  you 
again,  and  now  fate  has  taken  matters  out  of  my 
hands.  When  the  time  comes  that  I  am  able  to 
see  you,  I  will  write  and  let  you  know;  and  per- 
haps, if  by  then  you  have  not  forgotten  me,  you 
will  allow  me  to  do  so. 

"I  would  like  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness 
and  comradeship  to  me  during  the  voyage.  Those 
days  will  ever  remain  as  a  golden  memory  to  me. 

"Having  in  mind  your  words  when  we  lunched 
together  in  the  garden  of  that  little  hotel  at 
Teneriife,  I  dare  to  inscribe  myself, 

"Always  your  friend, 

"Antony  Gray." 

It  was  not  the  letter  he  longed  to  write,  yet 
he  dared  not  write  more  expKcitly.  Honour  for- 
bade the  smallest  hint  at  the  strange  position  in 
which  he  found  himself;  diffidence  held  him  back 
from  writing  the  words  his  heart  was  crying  to  her. 
Bald  and  flat  as  he  felt  the  letter  to  be,  he  could  do 
no  better.  It  must  go  as  it  stood.  He  headed  it 
with  the  address  of  his  present  rooms,  giving  his 
landlady  instructions  to  forward  all  letters  to  the 
post  office  at  Byestry. 

One  letter,  bearing  a  Scottish  postmark,  alone 


THE  DECISION  85 

came  for  him  after  his  departure.  It  remained 
for  close  on  two  months  on  the  table  of  the  dingy 
little  hall.  Then,  fearing  lest  Antony's  receipt  of  it 
should  betray  her  own  carelessness,  Mrs.  Dobbin 
consigned  it  unopened  to  the  kitchen  fire. 


CHAPTER  X 

AN  ENGLISH  COTTAGE 

KiNGSLEiGH  is  the  station  for  Byestry,  which 
is  eight  miles  from  it.  It  is  a  small  town,  not  much 
larger  than  a  mere  village,  lying,  as  its  name  desig- 
nates, on  the  shores  of  the  estuary,  which  runs  from 
the  sea  up  to  Kingsleigh.  Chorley  Old  Hall 
stands  on  high  wooded  land,  about  a  mile  from  the 
coast,  having  a  view  across  the  estuary,  and  out  to 
the  sea  itself. 

It  was  a  grey  day,  with  a  fine  mist  of  a  rain 
descending,  when  Antony,  with  Josephus  at  his 
heels,  stepped  on  to  Kingsleigh  platform.  In  the 
road  beyond  the  station,  a  number  of  carts  and 
carriages,  and  a  couple  of  closed  buses,  were  col- 
lected. The  drivers  of  the  said  vehicles  stood  by 
the  gate  through  which  the  passengers  must  pass, 
ready  to  accost  those  by  whom  they  had  been 
already  ordered,  or  pounce  upon  likely  fares. 

"Be  yu  Michael  Field?"  demanded  a  short 
wiry  man,  as  Antony,  carrying  an  old  portmanteau, 
and  followed  by  Josephus,  emerged  through  the 
gate. 

86 


AN  ENGLISH  COTTAGE  87 

For  a  moment  Antony  stared,  amazed.  Then 
he  remembered. 

"I  am,"  he  replied. 

"That's  gud,"  responded  the  man  cheerfully, 
"'It  the  first  nail,  so  to  speak.  T'Doctor 
sent  I  wi'  t'trap.  Coom  along.  Got  any  more 
baggage?" 

Antony  replied  in  the  negative.  Three  minutes 
later  he  was  seated  in  the  trap,  Josephus  at  his 
feet.  He  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  mackintosh, 
and  pulled  down  his  tweed  cap  over  his  eyes. 

"Bit  moist-like,"  said  the  man  cheerfully, 
whipping  up  his  horse. 

Antony  assented.  He  was  feeling  an  amazing 
sense  of  amusement.  The  adventurous  side  of  the 
affair  had  spnmg  again  to  the  fore,  after  a  week  of 
business-like  detail, — writing  letters  of  instruction 
to  Riffle  to  carry  on  with  the  farm  till  further 
notice,  an  office  he  was  fully  qualified  to  fulfil; 
making  certain  arrangements  with  Lloyd's  bank 
regarding  monies  to  be  sent  out  to  him;  buying  gar- 
ments suitable  for  the  part  he  himself  was  about 
to  play;  and  having  one  or  two  further  interviews 
with  Messrs.  Parsons  and  Glieve,  in  which  the 
absolute  necessity  of  his  playing  up  to  his  r61e 
in  every  way  was  further  impressed  upon  him. 

The  one  difficulty  that  had  presented  itself  to 
his  mind,  was  his  speech.  He  spent  several  half 
hours  conversing  with  himself  in  broadest  Devon- 
shire, but  finally  decided  that,  it  being  the  speech 
of  the  natives,  he  might  sooner  or  later  betray 


88  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

himself  by  some  inadvertent  lapse.  Next  he 
attempted  a  Colonial  accent.  James  Glieve,  how- 
ever, being  consulted  on  the  subject,  it  was  firmly 
negatived  as  likely  to  prove  unpopular.  In  the 
end  he  fell  back  on  a  strong  Irish  accent.  It  came 
to  him  readily  enough,  the  nurse  of  his  childhood 
having  hailed  from  the  Emerald  Isle.  Possibly  his 
actual  phraseology  would  not  prove  all  it  might  be, 
but  the  Devonians  were  not  likely  to  be  much  the 
wiser.  Anyhow  Antony  admired  his  own  prowess 
in  the  tongue  quite  immensely. 

"Sure,  'tis  the  foine  country  ye  have  here,'* 
quoth  he  presently,  as,  mounting  a  hill,  they  came 
out  upon  a  road  crossing  an  expanse  of  moor- 
land. Gorse  bushes  bloomed  golden  against  a 
backgroimd  of  grey  sky  and  atmosphere,  seen 
through  a  fine  veil  of  rain. 

*"Tis  gud  enuff, "  said  the  man  laconically. 
And  Antony  perceived  that  the  beauties  of  nature 
held  no  particular  interest  for  him. 

He  looked  out  at  the  wide  expanses  around  him. 
Mist  covered  the  farther  distances,  but  through  it, 
afar  off,  he  fancied  he  could  descry  the  grey  line  of 
the  sea.  To  the  right  the  moorland  gave  place  to 
a  distant  stone  wall,  beyond  which  was  a  wheat 
field;  to  the  left  it  stretched  away  into  the  mist, 
through  which  he  saw  the  dim  shapes  of  trees. 

The  man  jerked  his  head  to  the  left. 

*"Tis  over  yonder  is  t'old  Hall.  Yu'm  to  be 
under-gardener  there  I  heerd  t' Doctor  say.  What 
they'll  want  wi'  keeping  up  t'gardens  now  I  doant 


AN  ENGLISH  COTTAGE  89 

knoaw,  and  fold  Squire  gone.  Carried  off  mighty 
suddint  'e  was.  Us  said  as  t' journey  tu  Lunnon  ud 
be  the  death  o'  he.  Never  outside  t'doors  these 
fifteen  year  and  more,  and  then  one  fine  day 
Doctor  takes  he  oop  to  Lunnon  to  see  one  o'  they 
chaps  un  calls  a  speshulist.  Why  t'speshulist 
didn't  come  to  he  us  can't  tell.  Carried  on  a 
stretcher  he  was  from  t'carriage  to  t'train,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  covered  corpse.  Next  thing  Doctor 
coom  home  alone,  and  us  hears  as  fold  Sqiiire  be 
dead.  I  doant  rightly  knoaw  as  who  'twas  was  the 
first  to  tell  we,  for  Doctor,  'e  doant  like  talking  o' 
the  business.  But  there  'tis,  and  f  Lord  only 
knows  who'll  have  t'old  place  now,  seeing  as  'ow 
'e  never  'ad  no  wife  to  bear  un  a  son.  Us  heerd  as 
'twould  be  a  chap  from  foreign  parts.  'Twas  Jane 
Ellen  from  Doctor's  as  put  that  around,  but  us 
thinks  her  got  the  notion  in  a  way  her  shouldn't, 
for  her's  backed  out  o'  the  sayin'  o't  now.  Says 
her  never  said  nowt  o'  the  kind.  But  her  did. 
'Twas  Jim  Morris's  wife  her  told.  S'pose  Mr. 
Curtis'll  run  f  show  till  t'heir  turns  oop.  'Twont 
make  much  difference  to  we.  He's  run  it  the  last 
ten  year  and  more,  and  run  it  hard,  I  tell'ee  that. 
Doant  yu  go  for  to  get  the  wrong  side  o*  Spencer 
Curtis,  I  warns  'ee.  George  Standing  afore  'e 
wom't  much  to  boast  on,  but  Spencer  Curtis  be  a 
fair  flint. 

''Will  he  be  the  agent?"  demanded  Antony,  as 
the  man  paused. 

"  'Tis  what  'e's  called.     'Tis  master  he  is.   T'old 


90  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Squire  oughtn't  never  to  have  got  a  chap  like  *e  to 
do  'is  jobs.  'Tis  cast  iron  'e  is.  And  'twasn't  never 
no  use  going  to  Squire  for  to  stand  between  him  and 
we.  'E'd  never  set  eyes  on  nobody, 'e  wouldn't.  If 
I'd  my  way  I'd  give  every  gentry  what  owns 
property  a  taste  o'  livin'  on  it  same's  we.  'E'd 
know  a  bit  more  aboot  the  fair  runnin'  o'  it  then.  '* 

Antony  started.  An  idea,  quick-bom,  presented 
itself  before  him.  Was  it  possible,  was  it  con- 
ceivable, that  this  very  thought  had  been  in  the 
old  Squire's  mind  when  he  drew  up  those  extra- 
ordinary conditions?  Antony  nearly  laughed 
aloud.  Verily  it  was  an  absurdity,  though  one 
that  Nicholas  Danver  most  assuredly  could  not 
have  guessed.  Yet  that  he — ^Antony — should 
require  a  further  year's  enlightenment  as  to  the 
shifts  to  which  the  poor  were  put  to  make  both 
ends  meet,  as  to  the  iron  hand  of  agents  and  over- 
seers !    Truly  it  was  laughable ! 

He'd  had  experience  enough  and  to  spare, — ^he 
smiled  grimly  to  himself, — experience  such  as  an 
English  farm-labourer  earning  a  pound  a  week,  even 
with  a  wife  and  children  to  keep,  and  all  odds  against 
him,  could  never  in  the  remotest  degree  aided 
by  the  wildest  flights  of  imagination,  conceive. 
In  England  water  at  least  is  always  obtain- 
able. Antony  had  visions  of  the  jealous  husband- 
ing of  a  few  drops  of  hot  moisture  in  a  sunbaked 
leather  bottle.  In  England  the  law  at  least  pro- 
tects you  from  bodily  ill-treatment  at  the  hands 
of  agent  or  overseer.     Antony  had  visions —    But 


AN  ENGLISH  COTTAGE  91 

he  dismissed  them.  There  was  a  chapter  or  two  in 
his  life  which  it  was  not  good  to  recall. 

They  were  descending  now,  driving  between  the 
high  banks  and  hedges  of  a  true  Devonshire  lane. 
Primroses  starred  the  banks,  though  in  less  pro- 
fusion than  they  had  been  a  fortnight  earlier;  blue- 
bells and  pink  campion  grew  among  them,  and  the 
feathery  blossom  of  the  cow-parsley.  Turning  to 
the  left  at  the  foot  of  the  lane,  the  hedge  on  the 
right  was  lower.  Over  it,  and  across  an  expanse 
of  sloping  fields  dotted  here  and  there  with  snow- 
white  hawthorn  bushes,  Antony  saw  the  roofs  of 
houses  and  cottages,  and,  beyond  them,  the  sea. 
It  lay  grey  and  tranquil  under  an  equally  grey  sky. 
A  solitary  fishing  smack,  red-sailed,  made  a  note  of 
colour  in  the  neutral  atmosphere  of  sea  and  sky. 
To  the  right  was  a  gorse-crowned  cliff;  to  the 
left,  and  across  the  estuary,  a  headland  ran  far 
out  into  the  water. 

"Byestry, "  said  the  man,  nodding  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  roofs.  *  *  Us  doant  go  down  into  t'place. 
Yu'm  to  have  Widow  Jenkins's  cottage,  her  as  died 
back  tu  Christmas.  'Tis  a  quarter  o'mile  or  so 
from  t'town,  and  'twill  be  that  mooch  nearer 
fold  Hall.  Yu  see  yon  chimbleys  by  they  three 
elms  yonder?  'Tis  Doctor's  house.  Yu'm  tu  go 
there  this  evenin'  aboot  seven  o'clock  'e  bid  me 
tell  'ee.     Where  was  yu  working  tu  last  ? " 

The  question  came  abruptly.  For  one  brief 
second  Antony  was  non-plussed.  Then  he  recov- 
ered himself. 


92  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

*"Tis  London  I've  just  come  from,"  he  replied 
airily  enough.  "I've  been  doing  a  bit  on  my  own 
account  lately. " 

"Hmm, "  replied  the  man.  "I  reckon  if  I'd 
been  workin'  my  own  jobs,  I'd  not  take  an  under 
post  in  a  hurry.  But  yu  knoaws  your  own  busi- 
ness best.  T'last  chap  as  was  underest  gardener 
oop  tu  t'Hall  got  took  on  by  folks  living  over 
Exeter  way.  He  boarded  wi'  t'blacksmith  and 
his  wife.     Maybe  yu'm  a  married  man?" 

"I  am  not,"  said  Antony  smiling. 

"Not  got  a  maid  at  all?"  queried  the  other. 

Antony  shook  his  head. 

The  man  opened  his  eyes.  "Lord  love  *ee, 
what  do  un  want  wi'  a  cottage,  then !  Yu'd  best  be 
takin'  oop  wi'  a  wife.  There's  a  sight  of  vitty  maids 
tu  Byestry,  and  'tis  lonesome  like  comin'  home  to 
an  empty  hearth  and  no  supper.  There's  Rose 
Darell,  her's  a  gud  maid,  and  has  a  bit  o'  money; 
or  Jenny  Horswell,  her's  a  bit  o'  a  squint,  but  is  a 
fair  vitty  maid  tu  t'cleanin';  or  Vicky  Mathers, 
her's  as  pretty  as  a  picter,  but  her's  not  the  money 
nor  the  house  ways  o'  Rose  or  Jenny,"  he  ended 
with  thoughtful  consideration. 

Antony  laughed,  despite  the  fact  that  inwardly 
he  was  not  a  trifle  dismayed.  He  had  no  mind 
to  have  the  belles  of  Byestry  thus  paraded 
for  his  choice.  Work,  he  had  accepted  with 
the  conditions,  but  a  wife  was  a  very  different 
matter. 

"Sure,  I'm  not  a  marryin'  man  at  all,  I  am  not, " 


AN  ENGLISH  COTTAGE  93 

he  responded,  a  hypocritical  sigh  succeeding  to  the 
laugh. 

"Crossed?"  queried  the  man.  "Ah,  well, 
doan't  'ee  go  for  to  get  down  on  your  luck  for  one 
maid.  There's  as  gud  blackberries  hangin'  on 
t'bushes  as  ever  was  plucked  from  them.  And 
yii'm  tu  young  a  chap  tii  be  thinkin'  o'  yurself  as  a 
sallybat,  and  so  I  tells  'ee. " 

Antony  smothered  a  spasm  of  laughter. 

"It's  not  women  folk  I'm  wanting  in  my  life," 
responded  he,  still  with  hypocritical  gloom. 

"'Tis  kittle  cattle  they  be,  and  that's  sartain, 
sure,"  replied  the  other,  shaking  his  head.  "But 
'twas  a  rib  out  o'  the  side  o'Adam  the  first  woman 
was,  so  t'Scripture  do  tell  we,  and  I  reckon  us  men 
folk  do  feel  the  lack  o'  that  rib  nowadays,  till  us 
gets  us  a  wife." 

Antony  was  spared  an  answer,  a  fact  for  which 
he  sent  up  devout  thanks.  They  had  made  an- 
other leftward  turn  by  now,  and  come  upon  a 
cottage  get  a  little  way  back  from  the  road, — a 
cottage  with  a  wicket  gate  between  two  hedges, 
and  a  flagged  path  leading  up  to  a  small  porch, 
thatched,  as  was  the  cottage. 

"Here  us  be,"  said  the  man. 

Antony's  heart  gave  a  sudden  big  throb  of  plea- 
sure. The  little  place  was  so  extraordinarily 
English,  so  primitive  and  quaint.  True,  the  gar- 
*den  was  a  bit  dilapidated  looking,  the  apple  trees 
in  the  tiny  orchard  to  the  left  of  the  cottage  quite 
amazingly  old  and  lichen  grown;  but  it  spelled 


94  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDEN ER\ 

England  for  him,  and  that  more  emphatically 
than  any  other  thing  had  done  since  his  arrival  in 
the  Old  Country. 

Antony  dismounted  from  the  trap,  then  lifted 
Josephus  and  his  bag  to  the  ground.  This  done, 
he  began  to  feel  in  his  pocket  for  some  coins.  The 
man  saw  the  movement. 

"That  bain't  for  yu,"  he  replied  shortly,  "f 
Doctor  will  settle  wi'  I. " 

And  Antony  withdrew  his  hand  quickly,  feeling 
he  had  been  on  the  verge  of  a  lapse. 

"Here's  t'key,"  remarked  the  man.  **And  if 
yu  feel  like  a  pipe  one  o'  these  evenin's,  yu  might 
coom  down  tu  t'village.  My  place  is  over  opposite 
t'post  office.  I  be  t'saddler.  Yu'll  see  t'name 
Allbut  George  over  t'shop. " 

Antony  thanked  Mr.  Albert  George,  and  then 
watched  the  patriotically  named  gentleman  turn 
his  horse,  and  drive  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
coast.  When  the  trap  had  vanished  from  sight,  he 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Josephus,"  he  remarked,  "it  will  need  careful 
practice  and  wary  walking,  but  I  fancy  I  did 
pretty  well."  And  then  he  opened  the  garden 
gate. 

He  walked  up  the  little  path,  and  fitted  the 
key  with  which  Allbut  George  had  provided  him, 
into  the  lock.  He  turned  it,  and  pushed  open  the 
door.  It  gave  at  once  into  a  small  but  cheerful 
room,  brick-floored,  with  a  big  fireplace  at  one 
side.     An  oak  settle  stood  by  the  fireplace;  a  low 


AN  ENGLISH  COTTAGE  95 

seat,  covered  with  a  somewhat  faded  dimity,  was 
before  the  window;  there  was  a  basket -chair,  two 
wooden  chairs,  a  round  table,  a  dresser  with  some 
highly  coloured  earthenware  crockery  on  it,  a  cor- 
ner cupboard,  and  a  grandfather's  clock.  There 
was  a  door  behind  the  settle  to  the  right  of  the 
fireplace,  and,  in  the  opposite  comer,  stairs 
leading  to  a  room  or  rooms  above. 

Antony  put  his  bag  down  on  the  table  and  went 
to  investigate  the  door.  It  led  into  a  tiny  scullery 
or  kitchen,  provided  solely  with  a  small  range,  a 
deal  table,  a  chair,  a  sink,  and  a  pump.  In  one 
comer  was  a  box  containing  some  pieces  of  wood. 
In  another  comer  was  a  galvanized  bucket,  a  broom, 
and  a  scrubbing-brush.  He  glanced  around,  then 
came  back  into  the  sitting-room,  and  made  his 
way  to  the  stairs. 

They  led  direct  into  a  bedroom,  a  place  fur- 
nished with  a  camp  bed  covered  with  a  red  and 
brown  striped  blanket ;  a  small,  somewhat  rickety 
oak  chest  of  drawers,  a  rush-bottomed  chair,  a 
small  table,  a  corner  washstand,  and  a  curtain, 
which  hid  pegs  driven  into  the  wall.  A  door  led 
into  a  small  inner  room  over  the  kitchen  scullery. 
Antony  opened  the  door.  The  room  was  empty. 
Widow  Jenkins  had  had  no  use  for  it,  it  would 
appear.  Or,  so  Antony  suddenly  thought,  per- 
haps all  Widow  Jenkins's  furniture  had  been  re- 
moved, and  what  at  present  occupied  the  place  had 
been  put  there  solely  on  his  account. 

He  crossed  to  the  window,  and  pushed  it  back. 


96  f ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

It  looked  on  to  a  tiny  vegetable  garden,  in  much 
the  same  state  of  neglect  as  the  front  garden,  and 
was  separated  from  a  field  yellow  with  buttercups 
by  a  low  hawthorn  hedge.  Beyond  the  field  was 
a  tiny  brook;  and,  beyond  that  again,  a  copse. 
There  was  not  a  sound  to  break  the  silence,  save 
the  dripping  of  the  rain  from  the  roof  of  the  cottage, 
and,  in  the  distance,  the  low  sighing  note  of  the 
sea.  The  silence  was  emphasized  by  the  fact  that 
for  the  last  week  Antony  had  had  the  hum  of 
traffic  in  his  ears,  and  had  but  this  moment  come 
from  the  noise  of  trains  and  the  rattle  of  a  shaky 
dogcart. 

He  still  leaned  there  looking  out.  It  was 
even  more  silent  than  the  veldt.  There  were  no 
little  strange  animal  noises  to  break  the  silence. 
Nothing  but  that  drip,  drip  of  the  rain,  and  that 
soft  distant  sighing  of  the  sea. 

A  curious  sense  of  loneliness  fell  upon  him,  a 
loneUness  altogether  at  variance  with  the  loneliness 
of  the  veldt.  He  could  not  have  defined  wherein 
the  difference  lay,  yet  he  was  well  aware  that  there 
was  a  difference.  It  was  one  of  those  subtle 
differences,  exceedingly  apparent  to  the  inner 
consciousness,  yet  entirely  impossible  to  translate 
into  terms  of  speech.  The  nearest  approach  he 
could  get  to  anything  like  a  definition  of  it,  was 
that  it  was  less  big,  but  more  definitely  poignant. 
Beyond  that  he  did  not,  or  could  not,  go.  For 
some  five  minutes  or  so  he  leant  at  the  little  case- 
ment window,  gazing  at  the  gold  of  the  buttercups 


^N  ENGLISH  COTTAGE  97 

seen  through  a  blurred  mist  of  rain.  Then  he  pulled 
the  window  to,  and  came  down  into  the  parlour. 

The  hands  of  the  grandfather's  clock  pointed  to 
ten  minutes  to  five.  Antony,  remembering  the 
box  of  wood  in  the  scullery,  bethought  himself  of  a 
cup  of  tea.  His  bag  contained  all  the  require- 
ments. Long  practice  had  taught  him  to  provide 
himself  with  necessities,  and  also,  on  occasions,  to 
substitute  lemon  for  nulk,  as  a  complement  to  tea. 

He  was  just  about  to  go  and  fetch  a  handful  of 
sticks,  preparatory  to  lighting  a  fire,  when  he 
heard  the  click  of  his  garden  gate.  Turning, 
and  looking  through  the  window,  he  saw  a  big  man 
coming  up  the  path. 


CHAPTER  XI      . 

DOUBTS 

Doctor  Hilary  was  rettiming  from  his  rounds. 
His  state  of  mind  was  nearly  as  grey  as  the  atmos- 
phere. 

It  is  one  thing  to  agree  to  a  mad-brained  scheme 
in  the  first  amused  interest  of  its  propounding, 
even  to  mould  it  fiu*ther,  and  bring  it  into  shape. 
It  is  quite  another  to  be  actually  confronted  with 
the  finished  scheme,  to  reaHze  that,  though  you 
may  not  be  its  veritable  parent,  you  have  at  all 
events  foster-fathered  it  quite  considerably,  and 
that,  moreover,  you  cannot  now,  in  conscience, 
cast  oS  responsibility  in  its  behalf. 

The  fact  that  you  had  excellent  reasons  for 
adopting  the  scheme  in  the  first  place,  will  doubt- 
less be  of  comfort  to  your  soul,  but  that  particular 
species  of  comfort  and  ordinary  everyday  com- 
mon sense  are  not  always  as  closely  united  as  you 
might  desire.  In  fact  they  are  occasionally  apt  to 
pull  in  entirely  opposite  directions,  a  method  of 
procedure  which  is  far  from  consoling. 

Doctor  Hilary  found  it  far  from  consoling. 
98 


DOUBTS  99 

Conscience  told  him  quite  plainly  that  his  real 
and  innermost  reason  for  foster-fathering  the 
scheme  was  simply  and  solely  for  the  sake  of  snatch- 
ing at  any  mortal  thing  that  would,  or  could,  bring 
interest  into  an  old  man's  life.  Common  sense 
demanded  why  on  earth  he  had  not  suggested  an 
alternative  idea,  something  a  trifle  less  mad.  And 
it  was  mad.  There  did  not  now  appear  one  single 
reasonable  point  in  it,  though  very  assuredly  there 
were  quite  a  vast  number  of  unreasonable  ones. 

In  the  first  place,  and  it  seemed  to  him  nearly, 
if  not  quite,  the  most  imreasonable  point,  Nicholas 
had  known  nothing  whatever  about  the  young  man 
he  had  elected  to  make  his  heir, — ^nothing,  that  is, 
beyond  the  fact  that  he  had  known  the  young 
man's  father,  and  had  once  seen  Antony  himself 
when  Antony  was  a  child.  There  had  even  been 
very  considerable  difficulty  in  obtaining  knowledge 
of  his  whereabouts. 

In  the  second  place,  it  appeared  quite  absurd  to 
appoint  the  yoimg  man  to  the  position  of  imdergar- 
dener  at  the  Hall.  It  was  more  than  probable  that 
he  knew  nothing  whatever  about  gardening.  It  was 
true  that,  if  he  did  not,  he  could  learn.  But  then 
Golding,  the  head  gardener,  might  not  unreason- 
ably find  matter  for  amazement  and  comment  in 
the  fact  that  a  yoimg  and  ignorant  man,  who  was 
paid  a  poimd  a  week  and  allowed  to  rent  a  furnished 
cottage,  should  be  thrust  upon  him,  rather  than  an 
experienced  man,  or  an  ignorant  boy  who  would 
have  received  at  the  most  eight  shillings  a  week. 


100  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

and  have  lived  at  his  own  home.  Amazement  and 
comment  were  to  be  avoided,  that  had  been  Nich- 
olas's idea,  and  yet,  to  Doctor  Hilary's  mind  they 
ran  the  risk  of  being  courted  from  the  outset.  In 
the  third  place,  how  was  it  likely  that  a  man 
of  education — and  it  had  been  ascertained  that 
Antony  was  a  imiversity  man — could  comport 
himself  like  a  labourer  in  any  position, — gardener, 
farm-hand,  or  chauffeur?  The  conditions  had 
stated  that  he  was  to  do  so.  But  could  he? 
There  was  the  point. 

The  more  Doctor  Hilary  thought  about  the 
conditions,  the  madder  they  appeared  to  him. 
Yet,  having  imdertaken  the  job  of  carrying  the 
mad  scheme  through,  he  could  not  possibly  back 
out  at  the  eleventh  hour.  He  could  only  hope  for 
the  best,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  was 
not  exceedingly  optimistic  about  that  best.  And 
further,  he  was  not  exceedingly  optimistic  about 
the  young  man.  He  could  imagine  himself,  in  a 
like  situation,  consigning  Nick  and  his  conditions 
to  the  nether  regions;  certainly  not  submitting 
meekly  to  a  year's  effacement  of  his  personality 
for  the  sake  of  money.  Such  conditions  would 
have  enraged  him. 

No;  he  was  not  optimistic  regarding  the  man. 
He  pictured  him  as  either  a  bit  of  a  fawner,  who 
would  cringe  through  the  year,  or  a  keen-headed 
business  man,  who  would  go  through  it  with  a  steel- 
trap  mouth,  and  an  eye  to  every  weakness  in  his 
fellow-workers.     Certainly  neither  type  he  pic- 


DOUBTS  loi 

tured  appealed  to  him.  Yet  he  felt  confident  he 
would  find  one  of  the  two,  and  had  already  con- 
ceived a  strong  prejudice  against  Antony  Gray. 
From  which  regrettable  fact  it  will  be  seen  that  he 
was  committing  the  sin  of  rash  judgment. 

It  was  not  altogether  surprising,  therefore, 
that  his  mood  was  nearly  as  grey  as  the  atmos- 
phere. 

He  sighed  heavily,  and  shook  his  head,  some- 
what after  the  fashion  of  a  big  dog.  Reasons, 
partly  mental,  partly  physical  were  responsible 
for  the  shake.  In  the  first  place  it  was  an  attempt 
to  dispel  mental  depression;  in  the  second  place 
it  was  to  free  his  eyebrows  and  eyelashes  from  the 
rain  drops  clinging  to  them,  since  the  rain  was 
descending  in  a  grey  misty  veil. 

With  the  shake,  an  idea  struck  him. 

Why  not  confront  the  embodied  scheme  at  once? 
Why  not  interview  this  preposterous  young  man 
without  delay,  and  be  done  with  it? 

He  gave  a  brief  direction  to  his  coachman. 

Five  minutes  later  saw  him  standing  at  the  gate 
of  Copse  Cottage,  his  dog-cart  driving  away  down 
the  lane.  It  had  been  his  own  doing.  He  had 
said  he  would  walk  home.  An  idiotic  idea!  What 
on  earth  had  suggested  it  to  him? 

However,  it  was  done  now. 

He  pushed  open  the  gate,  and  walked  up  the 
little  flagged  path. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CONCERNING  MICHAEL  FIELD 

Antony,  having  seen  a  figure  approaching  the 
door,  opened  it,  and  confronted  a  big,  rugged- 
faced  man,  who  looked  at  him  somewhat  grimly. 

* '  Michael  Field  ? '  *  demanded  the  big  man  briefly. 

"Siu-e,  'tis  my  name,"  he  replied  cheerfully. 
"You'll  be  Doctor  Hilary,  I'm  thinking.  Won't 
you  be  coming  in  out  of  the  wet. "  He  flung  wide 
the  door  on  the  words. 

"George  foimd  you  all  right?'*  queried  Doctor 
Hilary  stepping  across  the  threshold.  He  ap- 
peared totally  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Antony's 
presence  made  the  success  of  George's  search 
fairly  obvious. 

"He  did  that,"  returned  Antony  pushing  for- 
ward a  chair,  but  making  no  attempt  to  sit  down 
himself.  The  impulse  had  been  upon  him.  Mem- 
ory had  awakened  just  in  time. 

Doctor  Hilary  was  silent.  The  reality  was  so 
entirely  different  from  his  preconceived  notions. 
The  cheerful,  clean-shaven  young  man,  with  the 
Irish  accent,  standing  before  him  in  an  attitude 


CONCtKNING  MICHAEL  FIELD        103 

of  qtiite  respectful,  but  not  in  the  least  subservient 
attention,  was  at  such  complete  variance  with 
either  of  his  two  imaginary  types,  that  he  found 
his  attitude  of  grimness  insensibly  relaxing. 

"Did  George  speak  to  you  regarding  yoiu: 
work?"  he  demanded  suddenly.  He  couldn't  for 
the  life  of  him,  think  of  anything  else  to  say. 

"Well, "  returned  Antony  thoughtfully  consider- 
ing, "he  asked  me  about  my  last  place,  and  I  told 
him  I'd  been  working  on  my  own  accoimt.  There- 
upon he  expressed  surprise  that  I  should  now  be 
taking  an  under  post,  but  remarked  with  vast 
wisdom  that  every  man  knew  his  own  business 
best." 

"Hmm,"  said  Doctor  Hilary. 

"He  also,"  continued  Antony,  his  eyes  twink- 
ling, "was  for  giving  me  advice  on  matrimony,  and 
mentioned  three  Vitty  maids  *  he  could  produce  for 
my  inspection.  I  told  him,"  continued  Antony 
solemnly,  though  his  eyes  were  still  twinkling, 
"that  I  was  not  a  marrying  man  at  all. " 

Doctor  Hilary  found  the  twinkle  in  Antony's 
eyes  gaining  response  in  his  own.  He  was  such  a 
remarkably  cheerful  young  man,  and  so  confiding. 

"Hmm,"  he  remarked  again.  "He  said  no- 
thing else  I  suppose?  Expressed  no  surprise  at 
your  being  chosen  for  the  post,  instead  of  a  local 
man?" 

"He  did  not,"  responded  Antony,  replying 
to  the  last  question.  "It  would  seem  that  he 
thought  any  appointment  to  the  post  unnecessary, 


104         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  Hall  was  at  present 
untenanted. " 

"And  you  replied — ?"  asked  Doctor  Hilary. 

*'Sure,  I  had  no  opinion  to  offer,  **  said  Antony. 
**It  was  not  my  affair  at  all.  He  talked,  but  I 
said  little." 

"A  good  principle,"  remarked  Doctor  Hilary 
approvingly,  "and  one  I  should  advise  you  to 
adhere  to.  Yom*  accent  is  all  right,  but  your — 
yoiu*  speech  is  a  trifle  fluent,  if  I  may  make  the 
suggestion." 

Antony  laughed  pleasantly.  He  was  now  made 
sure  of  the  fact  of  which  he  had  been  already  toler- 
ably certain,  namely,  that  this  big,  rugged-faced 
man  was  fully  aware  of  the  conditions  of  the  will, 
and  his  own  identity. 

"Siu-e,  'tis  we  Irish  have  the  gift  o*  the  gab," 
he  returned  apologetically,  "but  I'll  be  remem- 
bering yoiu"  advice. " 

There  was  a  little  silence.  It  was  broken  by 
Antony. 

"I  was  for  making  a  cup  of  tea  when  you  came 
up  the  path,  sor.  Will  you  be  having  one  with  me  ? 
It'll  not  take  beyont  ten  minutes  or  so  to  get  a  fire 
going,  and  the  water  boiling.  That  is,  if  you'll  be 
doing  me  the  honour,  sor,"  he  concluded  gravely. 

Doctor  Hilary  laughed  outright. 

He  watched  Antony  disappear  into  the  scullery, 
to  reappear  with  a  bundle  of  sticks  and  a  log.  He 
watched  him  kneeling  by  the  fire,  manipulating 
them  deftly.    He  watched  him  fill  a  kettle  with 


CONCERNING  MICHAEL  FIELD        105 

water,  and  put  it  on  the  fire,  set  cups  on  the  table, 
then  open  his  bag,  and  produce  bread,  butter,  a 
packet  of  tea,  and  a  lemon. 

It  was  extraordinary  what  an  alteration  his 
sentiments  had  undergone  since  entering  Copse 
Cottage.  Every  trace  of  prejudice  had  vanished. 
There  was,  in  his  mind,  something  pathetic  in  the 
skill,  evidently  bom  of  long  practice,  with  which 
this  tall  lean  man  made  his  preparations  for  the 
little  meal. 

From  watching  the  man.  Doctor  Hilary  turned 
his  attention  to  the  room.  It  was  fairly  comfort- 
able, at  all  events,  if  not  in  the  least  luxurious. 
But  the  inevitable  loneliness  of  the  Hfe  that  would 
be  led  within  its  walls,  struck  him  with  a  curious 
forcefulness. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  gardening?"  he 
demanded  suddenly,  breaking  the  silence. 

"Sure,  it's  little  I  don't  know,"  returned  Antony. 
"'Twas  a  bit  of  wild  earth  my  garden  was  before 
I  took  it  in  hand.  Now  there's  peach  trees,  and 
nectarines,  and  plum  trees  in  it,  and  all  the  vege- 
tables any  man  could  be  wanting,  and  flowers  fit 
for  a  queen's  drawing-room.  There's  roses  as  big 
as  yoiir  fist.  Oh,  'tis  a  fine  garden  it  is  out  on — ** 
he  broke  off,  "out  beyont, "  he  concluded. 

"On  the  veldt,"  suggested  Doctor  Hilary 
quietly. 

"'Twas  the  veldt  I  was  after  meaning,"  re- 
sponded Antony  smiHng,  "but  I  thought  'twould  be 
as  well  to  get  my  tongue  used  to  forgetting  the 


io6  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDEN  Em 

sound  of  the  word,  lest  it  should  slip  out  some  fine 
day,  when  I  wasn't  meaning  it  to  at  all. " 

"Wise,  anyhow, "  agreed  Doctor  Hilary,  and  he 
too  smiled.  "But  you  understand  that  I — well,  I 
happen  to  know  all  the  circtmastances  of  this 
arrangement. " 

Antony  laughed.  "I  was  thinking  as  much," 
he  confessed. 

"I  wonder — "  began  Doctor  Hilary.  And 
then  he  stopped.  He  had  been  about  to  wonder 
aloud  as  to  why  on  earth  Antony  should  have 
accepted  the  conditions,  why  he  should  have  ex- 
changed the  freedom  and  untrammelled  spaces 
of  the  veldt  for  the  conventional  life  of  England, 
even  with  the  Hall  and  a  goodly  income,  at  the 
end  of  the  year,  to  the  balance.  He  knew  most 
assuredly  that  nine  him.dred  and  ninety -nine  men 
out  of  a  thousand  would  have  done  so,  and  he 
knew  that  he  himself  was  the  thousandth  who 
would  not.  His  exceedingly  brief  acquaintance 
with  Antony  had  given  him  the  impression  that 
he,  also,  was  a  thousandth  man. 

"You  wonder — ?"  queried  Antony. 

"I  wonder  how  you'll  like  the  life, "  said  Doctor 
Hilary,  though  it  was  not  precisely  what  he  had 
originally  intended  to  say. 

"'Tis  England,"  said  Antony  briefly. 

"Is  that  your  sole  reason  for  accepting  the 
life?"  asked  Doctor  Hilary  curiously. 

Antony  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes. 
'  "It   is   not,"   he  repHed   smiling.    And   then 


CONCERNING  MICHAEL  FIELD       107 

he  turned  to  the  kettle,  which  was  on  the  point  of 
boiling  over. 

Of  course  it  was  a  rebuff.  But  it  was  a  perfectly 
polite  one.  And  oddly — or,  perhaps,  not  oddly — 
Doctor  Hilary  did  not  resent  it  in  the  least.  On 
the  contrary,  he  respected  the  man  who  had 
administered  it. 

"There's  no  milk,"  said  Antony  presently, 
pouring  tea  into  two  cups.  "Can  you  be  putting 
up  with  a  lemon?" 

"I  like  it, "  Doctor  Hilary  assured  him. 

After  the  meal  they  smoked  together,  making 
remarks  now  and  again,  interspersed  with  little 
odd  silences,  which,  however,  appeared  quite 
natural  and  friendly.  Josephus,  who  at  the  outset 
had  viewed  the  entry  of  the  big  man  on  the  scene 
with  something  akin  to  disapproval,  now  walked 
solemnly  over  to  him,  stood  on  his  hind  legs,  and 
put  his  fore  paws  on  Doctor  Hilary's  knees. 

"A  token  of  approval, "  said  Antony. 

And  then  another  of  the  odd  Httle  silences 
fell. 

"You  will  report  yourself  to  Golding  at  half- 
past  seven  on  Monday  morning,"  said  Doctor 
Hilary  some  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  as  he  rose  to 
take  his  leave.  "He  lives  at  the  lodge  about  five 
minutes'  walk  up  the  road.  You'll  find  the  place 
all  right.  You  will  take  all  instructions  as  to  your 
work  from  him.  If  you  should  wish  to  see  me 
personally  at  any  time  regarding  anything,  you  will 
usually  find  me  at  home  in  the  evening. " 


io8         ANTON  Y  GRA  Y, --GARDENER 

Antony  touched  his  forehead  in  the  most 
approved  style. 

"I  thank  you,  sor,"  he  responded. 

Doctor  Hilary  smiled.  "Well,  good  luck  to 
you.  It  will  be  better — of  course,  from  now 
onward,  we  must  remember  that  you  are  Michael 
Field,  under-gardener  at  the  Hall." 

"*Tis  a  good  name,"  said  Antony  solemnly. 
"Sure,  I'm  downright  obliged  to  me  godfathers 
and  godmothers  for  giving  me  such  a  one." 

^Again  Doctor  Hilary  smiled.  "Oh,  and  by 
the  way,"  he  said,  "how  about  money." 

Antony  felt  in  his  pockets.  He  produced  two 
florins,  a  sixpence,  and  a  halfpenny.  He  looked 
at  them  lying  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Then  he 
looked  whimsically  at  the  Doctor. 

"I  don't  know  whether  the  possession  of  these 
coins  breaks  the  spirit  of  the  contract.  I'm  think- 
ing 'twill  hardly  break  the  letter.  *Tis  all  I 
have." 

The  Doctor  laughed. 

"I  fancy  not,"  he  replied.  I'd  better  give 
you  your  first  week's  wage  in  advance.  You'll 
need  to  lay  in  provisions.  There's  a  general  store 
in  Byestry.  Perhaps  you'll  want  to  do  a  little 
in  the  purchasing  line.  Remember,  to-morrow  is 
Sunday. " 

He  laid  a  sovereign  on  the  table,  and  a  moment 
later  the  garden  gate  clicked  to  behind  him. 

Antony  went  back  into  the  Httle  parlour. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   DISCOVERY 

The  morning  broke  as  fair,  as  blue-skied, 
as  sunny,  as  the  previous  day  had  been  gloomy, 
grey-skied,  and  wet. 

The  song  of  a  golden-throated  lark  was  the 
first  sound  that  Antony  heard,  as  he  woke  to  find 
the  early  morning  sunshine  pouring  through  the 
open  casement  window.  He  lay  very  stiU,  listen- 
ing to  the  flood  of  hquid  notes,  and  looking  at 
the  square  of  blue  sky,  seen  through  the  window. 
Now  and  again  an  ivy  leaf  tapped  gently  at  the 
pane,  stirred  by  a  Httle  breeze  blowing  from  the 
sea,  and  sweeping  softly  across  buttercupped 
meadow  and  gorse-grown  moorland.  Once  a  flight 
of  rooks  passed  across  the  square  blue  patch,  and 
once  a  pigeon  lighted  for  an  instant  on  the  window- 
sill,  to  fly  off  again  on  swift,  strong  wings. 

He  lay  there,  drowsily  content.  For  that  day 
at  least,  there  was  a  pleasant  idleness  ahead  of 
him,  nothing  but  his  own  wants  to  attend  to.  The 
morrow  would  see  him  armed  with  spade  and  rake, 
probably  wrestling   with  weeds,  digging  deep  in 

109 


no    ANTONY  GRAY— GARDENER; 

the  good  brown  earth,  possibly  mowing  the  grass, 
and  such  like  jobs  as  fall  to  the  lot  of  an  under- 
gardener.  Antony  smiled  to  himself.  Well,  it 
would  all  come  in  the  day's  work,  and  the  day's 
work  would  be  no  novel  master  to  him.  The  open 
air,  whether  under  cloud  or  sunshine,  was  good. 
After  all,  his  lot  for  the  year  would  not  be  such 
a  bad  one.  He  was  in  the  mood  to  echo  the 
praises  of  that  brown-feathered  morsel  pouring 
forth  its  lauds  somewhere  aloft  in  the  blue. 
Suddenly  the  song  ceased.  The  bird  had  come 
to  earth. 

For  a  moment  or  so  longer  Antony  lay  very 
still,  listening  to  the  silence.  Then  he  flung 
back  the  bed-clothes,  went  to  the  window,  and 
looked  out. 

He  looked  across  the  tiny  garden,  and  the 
lane,  to  a  wild-rose  hedge;  fragile  pink  blossoms 
swayed  gently  in  the  breeze.  Beyond  the  hedge 
was  a  field  of  close-cropped  grass,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  sheep.  To  the  left  a  turn  in  the  lane, 
and  the  high  banks  and  hedges,  shut  further  view 
from  sight.  To  the  right,  and  far  below  the  cot- 
tage, across  meadows  and  the  hidden  village  of 
Byestry,  lay  the  sea. 

It  lay  blue  and  sparkling,  flecked  with  a  myriad 
moving  specks  of  gold,  as  the  sunshine  fell  on 
the  dancing  water.  He  had  seen  it  at  close  quar- 
ters last  night,  from  the  Httle  quay,  seen  it  smooth 
and  grey,  its  breast  heaving  now  and  then  as  if  in 
gentle  sleep.     To-day  it  was  awake,  alive,  and 


A  DISCOVERY  m 

buoyant.     He  must  get  down  to  it  again.     It  was 
inviting  him,  smiling,  dimpling,  alluring. 

He  made  a  quick  but  exceedingly  careful  toilet.  ■ 
Antony  was  fastidious  to  a  degree  in  the  matter 
of  cleanliness.  Earth  dirt  he  had  no  objection 
to;  slovenly  dirt  was  as  abhorrent  to  him  as  vice. 

Josephus,  who  had  slept  in  the  parlour,  accorded 
him  a  hearty  welcome  on  his  descent  of  the  narrow 
steep  little  stairs,  intimating  that  he  was  every 
whit  as  ready  to  be  up  and  doing  as  was  his 
master.  The  sunshine,  the  blithesomeness  of  the 
morning  was  infectious.  You  felt  yourself  smiling 
in  accord  with  its  smiles. 

Antony  flimg  wide  the  cottage  door.  A  scent 
of  rosemary,  southernwood,  and  verbena  was 
wafted  to  him  from  the  little  garden, — clean,  old- 
fashioned  scents,  EngHsh  in  their  very  essence. 
Anon  he  had  more  commonplace  scents  mingling 
with  them, — the  appetizing  smell  of  fried  sausages, 
the  aromatic  odour  of  freshly  made  coffee.  Jose- 
phus found  himself  in  two  minds  as  to  the  re- 
spective merits  of  the  attractions  without,  and  the 
alluring  odours  within.  Finally,  after  one  scamper 
round  the  garden,  he  compromised  by  seating 
himself  on  the  doorstep,  for  the  most  part  facing 
the  simshine,  but  now  and  again  turning  a  wet 
black  nose  in  the  direction  of  the  breakfast  table 
and  frying-pan. 

An  hour  or  so  later  he  was  giving  himself  whole- 
heartedly to  the  grassy  and  rabbitty  scents  dear 
to  a  doggy  soul,  as  he  scampered  in  the  direction  of 


112  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Byestry  with  his  master.  Occasionally  he  made 
side  tracks  into  hedges  and  down  rabbit  holes, 
whence  at  a  whistle  from  Antony,  he  would  emerge 
innocent  in  expression,  but  utterly  condemned  by 
traces  of  red  earth  on  his  black  nose  and  white 
back. 

There  was  a  lazy  Sundayish  atmosphere  about 
the  village  as  Antony  passed  through  it,  with 
Josephus  now  at  his  heels.  Men  lounged  by 
cottage  doors,  women  gossiped  across  garden 
fences.  The  only  beings  with  an  object  in 
view  appeared  to  be  children, — crimp-haired  little 
girls,  and  stiffly-suited  small  boys,  who  walked 
in  chattering  groups  in  the  direction  of  a  building 
he  rightly  judged  to  be  a  Sunday-school. 

A  little  farther  on,  a  priest  was  standing  by 
the  door  of  a  small  bam-like-looking  place  with  a 
cross  at  one  end.  Antony  vaguely  supposed  it  to 
be  a  church,  and  thought,  also  vaguely,  that  it 
was  the  oddest-looking  one  he  had  ever  seen.  He 
concluded  that  Byestry  was  too  small  to  boast 
a  larger  edifice. 

On  reaching  the  quay  he  turned  to  the  right, 
walking  along  a  cobbled  pavement,  which  pre- 
sently sloped  down  to  the  beach  and  a  narrow 
stretch  of  firm  smooth  sand,  bordered  by  brown 
rocks  and  the  sea  on  one  side,  and  a  towering  cliff 
on  the  other.  The  tide  was  going  down,  leaving 
the  brown  rocks  uncovered.  Among  them  were 
small  crystal  pools,  reflecting  the  blue  of  the 
sky  as  in  a  mirror.     Sea  spleenwort  and  masses  of 


A  DISCOVERY  ii^ 

samphire  grew  on  the  cliffs  to  his  right.  No  dan- 
ger here  to  the  would-be  samphire  gatherer;  it 
could  be  plucked  from  the  safety  of  solid  earth,  with 
as  great  ease  as  picking  up  shells  from  the  beach. 

After  some  half  hour's  walking,  Antony  turned 
a  comer,  bringing  him  to  a  yet  lonelier  beach. 
Looking  back,  he  found  Byestry  shut  from  his 
view, — the  cliffs  behind  him,  the  sea  before  him, 
the  sky  above  him,  stretches  of  sand  around  him, 
and  himself  alone,  save  for  Josephus,  and  sea-gulls 
which  dipped  to  the  water  or  circled  in  the  blue, 
and  jackdaws  which  cried  harshly  from  the  cliffs. 

He  sat  down  on  the  sand,  and  began  to  fill 
his  pipe.  It  was  extraordinarily  lonely,  extra- 
ordinarily peaceful.  There  was  no  sinister  note 
in  the  loneliness  such  as  he  had  experienced  in  the 
vast  spaces  of  the  African  veldt,  but  a  reposeful- 
ness,  a  quiet  rest  which  appealed  to  him.  The 
very  blueness  of  the  sky  and  sparkle  of  the  sun- 
shine was  tender  after  the  brazen  glitter  of  the 
African  sun.  Turning  to  look  behind  him,  he 
saw  that  here  the  cliff  was  grass-covered,  sloping 
almost  to  the  beach,  and  among  the  grass,  hiding 
its  green,  were  countless  bluebells,  a  sheet  of 
shimmering  colour.  Two  Unes  of  Tennyson's 
came  suddenly  into  his  mind. 

And  the  whole  isle  side  flashing  down  with  never  a 

tree 
Swept  like  a  torrent  of  gems  from  the  sky  to  the  blue 

of  the  sea. 

8 


114         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

The  island  of  flowers  and  the  island  of  silence 
in  one,  he  felt  the  place  to  be,  and  no  fear  of  fight- 
ing, with  himself  as  sole  inhabitant.  So  might  the 
islands  have  been  after  Maeldune  had  renounced 
his  purpose  of  revenge,  after  he  had  returned  from 
the  isle  of  the  saint  who  had  spoken  words  of  peace. 

He  lost  coimt  of  time.  A  pleasant  waking 
drowsiness  fell  upon  him,  till  at  length,  seeing 
that  the  sim  had  reached  its  zenith,  he  realized 
that  it  must  be  noon,  and  began  to  consider  the 
advisability  of  retracing  his  steps. 

He  got  to  his  feet,  whistling  to  a  white  speck 
in  the  distance,  which  he  rightly  judged  to  be 
Josephus,  and  set  out  on  his  homeward  route. 

The  village  appeared  deserted,  as  he  once  more 
reached  it.  Doubtless  the  Sunday  dinner,  which 
accounts  so  largely  for  Sunday  sleepiness,  was 
in  progress. 

Coming  to  the  small  bam-Hke-looking  building 
which  he  had  noticed  earlier  in  the  morning,  and 
seeing  that  the  door  was  open,  he  looked  in.  The 
air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  incense.  It 
needed  only  a  moment's  observation  to  tell  him 
that  he  was  in  a  Catholic  church.  A  curtained 
tabernacle  stood  on  the  little  altar,  before  which 
himg  a  ruby  lamp.  The  building  was  too  small  to 
allow  of  two  altars,  but  at  one  side  was  a  statue  of 
Our  Lady,  the  base  surroimded  with  flowers,  since 
.it  was  the  month  of  May.  Near  the  porch  was  a 
statue  of  St.  Peter. 


A  DISCOVERY  115 

Antony  looked  curiously  around.  It  was  the 
third  time  only  that  he  had  entered  a  Catholic 
church,  the  second  time  being  at  Teneriffe  with 
the  Duchessa.  Ordering  Josephus  to  stay  with- 
out, he  walked  up  the  little  aisle,  and  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  rush-seated  chairs  near  the 
sanctuary.  He  hadn't  a  notion  what  prompted 
the  impulse,  but  he  knew  that  some  impulse  was 
at  work. 

He  looked  towards  the  sanctuary.  Mass  had 
been  said  not  long  since,  and  the  chaHce  covered 
with  the  veil  and  burse  was  still  on  the  altar. 
Antony  hadn't  a  notion  of  even  the  first  principles 
of  the  Catholic  faith,  not  as  much  as  the  smallest 
Catholic  child;  but  he  felt  here,  in  a  measure, 
the  same  sense  of  home  as  he  knew  the  Duchessa 
to  have  felt  in  the  church  at  Teneriffe.  Oddly 
enough  he  did  not  feel  himself  the  least  an  intruder. 
There  was  almost  a  sense  of  welcome. 

From  looking  at  the  altar  he  looked  at  the  chairs, 
and  the  small  oblong  pieces  of  pasteboard  fastened 
to  their  backs.  He  looked  down  at  the  piece 
which  denoted  the  owner  of  the  chair  in  which 
he  was  sitting.  And  then  he  foimd  himself  staring 
at  it,  while  his  heart  leaped  and  thumped  madly. 
On  the  pasteboard  four  words  were  written, — The 
Duchessa  di  Donatello. 

He  gazed  at  the  words  hardly  able  to  beheve 
the  sight  of  his  own  eyes.  What  odd  coincidence, 
what  odd  impulse  had  brought  him  to  her  very 
chair?     It  was  extraordinary,  unbelievable  almost. 


Ii6         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

And  then  another  thought  flashed  into  his  brain, 
making  his  heart  stand  still. 

A  door  to  the  left  opened,  and  a  priest  came 
out.  He  looked  momentarily  at  Antony,  then 
went  into  the  sanctuary,  genuflected,  took  the 
covered  chalice  from  the  altar,  genuflected  again, 
and  went  back  into  the  sacristry,  leaving  the  door 
partly  open. 

Antony  got  suddenly  to  his  feet.  He  went 
towards  the  sacristry.  The  priest,  hearing  the 
sound  of  steps,  opened  the  door  wide. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Antony,  "but  can  you  tell 
me  where  Woodleigh  is?"  His  Irish  brogue 
was  forgotten. 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  priest.  "It  is  about 
two  miles  from  here,  inland."  He  looked  rather 
curiously  at  the  man,  who,  though  labourer  by  his 
dress,  yet  spoke  in  an  obviously  refined  voice. 
He  waited,  perhaps  expecting  some  further 
question. 

"That  was  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  said  Antony. 
"Thank  you."     He  turned  back  into  the  chiirch. 

Father  Dormer  looked  after  him.  There  was 
a  puzzled  look  in  his  eye. 

Antony  came  out  of  the  church  and  into  the 
sunlight.  He  called  to  Josephus,  who  was  busy 
with  the  investigation  of  a  distant  smithy,  and 
turned  up  the  street,  walking  rather  quickly. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HONOR  VINCIT 

His  brain  was  working  rapidly,  the  while  he 
felt  a  curious  leaden  sensation  at  his  heart.  He 
had  never  even  contemplated  the  possibility  of 
the  Duchessa  living  in  the  neighbourhood,  though 
he  now  marvelled  why  he  had  never  happened  to 
question  her  as  to  the  exact  locaHty  of  Woodleigh. 

Of  course  he  knew,  and  assured  himself  that 
he  knew,  that  the  chances  were  all  against  any 
probability  of  their  meeting.  How  was  it  likely 
they  should  meet,  seeing  that  she  was  a  grande 
dame,  and  he  merely  an  under-gardener  at  the 
Hall?  Of  course  it  was  not  probable.  Never- 
theless there  was  just  the  faintest  chance.  He 
couldn't  deny  that  remote  chance.  And  if  they 
did  meet,  and  she  should  recognize  him? — There 
was  the  question. 

Explanation  would  be  impossible  in  view  of  his 
promise.  And  what  would  she  think?  Wouldn't 
it  be  conceivable,  nay,  wouldn't  it  be  natural  that 
she  should  be  indignant  at  the  thought  that  she 
had  admitted  to  her  friendship  a  man,  who,  to 

117 


Ii8         'ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

her  eyes,  woiild  appear  one  of  inferior  birth? 
Wouldn't  his  behaviour  on  the  Fort  Salisbury 
appear  to  her  in  the  light  of  a  fraud?  Wouldn't 
his  letter  appear  to  her  as  a  piece  of  preposterous 
presumption  on  his  part?  How  could  it  be  ex- 
pected that  she  should  see  beneath  the  surface 
of  things  as  they  seemed  to  be,  and  solve  the 
riddle  of  appearances?  It  was  such  an  incon- 
ceivable situation,  such  an  altogether  imheard 
of  situation,  laughable  too,  if  it  weren't  for  the 
vague  possibility  of  the — to  him — tragedy  he  now 
saw  involved  in  it.  It  was  this,  this  vague  sense 
of  tragedy,  that  was  causing  that  leaden  sensation 
at  his  heart. 

He  tried  to  tell  himself  that  he  was  being  mor- 
bid, that  he  ran  no  possible  risk  of  coming  face  to 
face  with  the  Duchessa,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  Manor  House  Woodleigh  lay  but  two  miles 
distant.  But  the  assurances  he  heaped  upon  his 
soul,  went  a  remarkably  small  way  towards 
cheering   it. 

And  yet,  through  the  leadenness  upon  his  soul, 
through  that  vague,  almost  indefinable  sense  of 
tragedy  at  hand,  ran  a  ciuious  Httle  note  of 
exultation.  Though  he  had  no  smallest  desire 
for  her  to  set  eyes  on  him,  might  not  he  set  eyes  on 
her?  And  yet,  if  he  did,  would  the  joy  in  the 
sight  be  worth  the  dull  ache,  the  horrible  sense 
of  isolation  in  the  knowledge  that  word  with 
her  was  forbidden. 

He  realized  now,  for  the  first  time  in  its  fullest 


HONOR  VWCIT  119 

measure,  what  her  advent  into  his  life  meant 
to  him.  Bodily  separation  for  a  year  had  been 
possible  to  contemplate.  Even  should  it  extend 
to  a  lifetime,  he  would  still  have  three  golden 
weeks  of  memory  to  his  comfort.  But  should 
mental  separation  fall  upon  him,  should  it  ever  be 
his  lot  to  read  anger  in  her  eyes,  he  felt  that  his 
very  soul  would  die.  Even  memory  would  be  lost 
to  him,  by  reason  of  the  unbearable  pain  it  would 
hold.  And  then,  with  the  characteristics  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  face  possibiHties,  to  confront 
contingencies  and  emergencies  beforehand,  he  saw 
himself  face  to  face  with  a  temptation.  Should 
the  emergency  he  contemplated  arise,  was  there 
not  a  simple  solution  of  it?  She  was  quick-witted, 
she  might  quite  conceivably  guess  at  the  exist- 
ence of  some  riddle.  Would  not  the  tiniest  hint 
suffice  for  her?  The  merest  possible  inflection  of 
his  voice? 

He  had  reached  his  cottage  by  now.  He  went 
in  and  shut  the  door. 

He  sat  down  on  the  oak  settle,  staring  at  the 
little  casement  window  opposite  to  him,  without 
seeing  it.  It  appeared  to  him  that  there  were 
voices  talking  within  his  brain  or  soiil, — ^he  didn't 
know  which, — ^while  he  himself  was  answering  one 
of  them — the  loudest. 

The  loudest  voice  spoke  quite  cheerfully,  and 
was  full  of  common  sense.  It  urged  him  to  aban- 
don the  consideration  of  the  whole  matter  for  the 


120         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

present;  it  told  him  that  the  probability  of  his 
meeting  the  Duchessa  was  so  extraordinarily 
remote,  that  it  was  not  worth  while  tortiiring  his 
mind  with  considerations  of  what  Une  of  action  he 
would  take  should  the  emergency  arise.  Should  it 
do  so,  he  could  act  then  as  his  conscience  prompted. 

He  found  himself  replying  to  this  voice,  speaking 
almost  stubbornly.  He  had  got  to  fight  the  matter 
out  now,  he  declared.  He  had  got  to  decide 
absolutely  definitely  what  course  of  action  he  in- 
tended to  pursue,  should  the  emergency  he  feared 
arise.  He  was  not  going  to  leave  matters  to  chance 
and  be  surprised  into  saying  or  doing  something 
he  might  either  way  afterwards  regret.  He  knew 
the  danger  of  not  making  up  his  mind  beforehand. 
To  which  the  loud  voice  responded  with  something 
like  a  sneer,  telling  him  to  have  it  his  own  way. 
And  then  it  remained  mockingly  silent,  while 
another  and  more  insidious  voice  began  to  speak. 

The  insidious  voice  told  him  quite  gently  that 
this  emergency  might  indeed  arise;  it  pointed  out 
to  him  the  quite  conceivable  events  that  might 
occur  from  it;  it  assured  him  that  it  had  no  possi- 
ble desire  that  he  should  break  his  promise  in  any 
way.  He  was  not  to  dream  of  giving  any  explana- 
tion to  the  Duchessa,  but  that  he  would  owe  it  to 
himself,  and  to  her,  to  give  her  the  faintest  hint  that 
at  a  future  date  he  could  give  her  an  explanation. 
That  was  all.  There  would  be  no  breaking  of 
his  promise.  She  could  not  possibly  even  guess 
at  what  that  explanation  might  be.     She  would 


HONOR  VINCIT  121 

merely  realize  that  something  underlay  the  present 
appearances. 

The  proposition  sounded  perfectly  reasonable, 
perfectly  just.  His  own  common  sense  told  him 
that  there  could  be  no  harm  in  it.  It  was  the 
rightful  solution  of  the  difficulty,  arrived  at  by 
silencing  that  first  loud  voice, — the  voice  which 
had  clearly  wished  him  to  abandon  aU  considera- 
tion of  the  matter,  that  he  might  be  surprised 
into  giving  a  full  explanation  of  the  situation. 

Antony  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

After  all,  he  had  been  torturing  himself  need- 
lessly. She  herself  had  spoken  of  trust.  Should 
that  trust  totter  for  an  instant,  would  not  the 
faintest  possible  hint  be  sufficient  to  re-establish  it 
on  a  firm  basis? 

With  the  thought,  the  Kttle  square  of  casement 
window  came  back  once  more  to  his  vision.  He 
saw  through  it  an  old-fashioned  rose  bush  of 
crimson  roses  in  the  garden;  he  heard  a  bird  twit- 
ter, and  call  to  its  mate.  The  abnormal  had 
vanished,  reduced  itself  once  more  to  plain  whole- 
some common  sense.  And  then  suddenly,  and 
without  warning,  a  sentence  flashed  through  his 
brain. 

Antony  sat  up,  clenching  his  hands  furiously 
between  his  knees.  It  was  absurd,  preposterous. 
There  was  no  smallest  occasion  to  take  those 
words  in  such  a  desperately  literal  sense. 

"In  short,  he  will  do  all  in  his  power  to  give  the 


122  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

impression  that  he  is  simply  and  solely  Michael 
Field,  working-man,  and  under-gardener  at  Chorley 
Old  Hall." 

The  words  rang  as  clearly  in  his  brain  as  if 
there  were  someone  in  the  room  speaking  them 
aloud.  Once  more  the  window  vanished.  There 
were  no  voices  speaking  now;  there  was  only  a 
curious  and  rather  horrible  silence,  in  which  there 
was  no  need  for  voices. 

The  faintest  little  whine  from  Josephus  aroused 
him.  It  was  long  past  the  dinner  hour,  and  racing 
the  sands  is  exceedingly  himgry  work. 

Antony's  eyes  came  back  from  the  window. 
His  face  was  rather  white,  and  his  mouth  set  in  a 
straight  line.  But  there  was  an  oddly  triumphant 
look  in  his  eyes. 

"I  think  a  meal  will  do  us  both  good,  old  man, " 
he  said  with  a  httle  whimsical  smile.  And  he 
began  getting  down  plates  from  the  dresser. 


CHAPTER  XV" 

IN  THE  GARDEN 

Some  fifteen  or  more  years  ago,  the  gardens 
of  Chorley  Old  Hall  were  famous  for  their  beauty. 
They  still  deserved  to  be  famous,  and  the  reason 
that  they  were  so  no  longer,  arose  merely  from 
the  fact  that  they  had  become  unknown,  had  sunk 
into  obscurity,  since  no  one  but  the  actual  inmates 
of  the  Hall,  Doctor  Hilary,  and  the  gardeners 
themselves  ever  set  eyes  on  them. 

Yet  Golding,  being  an  artist  at  heart,  cared 
for  them  for  pure  love  of  the  work,  rather  than  for 
any  kudos  such  care  might  bring  him.  Had  he 
read  poetry  with  as  great  diligence  as  he  read 
works  on  horticulture,  he  would  possibly  have 
declared  his  doctrine  to  be  found  in  the  words: — • 

Work  thou  for  pleasure,  paint,  or  sing  or  carve 
The  thing  thou  lovest,  though  the  body  starve. 
Who  works  for  glory  misses  oft  the  goal, 
Who  works  for  money  coins  his  very  soul. 
Work  for  the  work's  sake,  and  it  may  be 
That  these  things  shall  be  added  unto  thee. 

133 


124         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Certain  it  is  that  the  gardens  under  his  care 
were  as  beautiful  as  gardens  may  be.  Where 
trininess  was  desirable,  they  were  as  neat,  as  well- 
ordered,  as  stately  as  some  old-world  lady;  where 
nature  was  allowed  fuller  sway,  they  luxuriated 
in  a  very  riot  of  mad  coloiu*, — ^pagan,  bacchanalian 
almost,  yet  in  completest  harmony,  despite  the 
freedom  permitted. 

Before  the  house,  beyond  a  rose-embowered 
terrace,  a  wide  lawn,  soft  as  thickest  velvet,  ter- 
minated in  two  great  yews,  set  far  apart,  a  sundial 
between  them,  and  back-grounded  by  the  sea 
and  sky.  To  right  and  left  were  flower  borders 
brilhant  in  colour,  against  yew  hedges.  Still 
farther  to  the  right  was  the  Tangle  Garden,  where 
climbing  roses,  honeysuckle,  and  clematis  roamed 
over  pergolas  and  old  tree  stumps  at  their  own 
sweet  will  and  fancy.  Beyond  the  yew  hedge 
on  the  left  was  another  garden  of  yews,  and  firs, 
and  hollies.  A  long  avenue  ran  its  full  length 
while  white  marble  statues,  set  on  either  side, 
gleamed  among  the  darkness  of  the  trees.  The 
end  of  the  avenue  formed  a  frame  for  an  expanse  of 
billowing  moorland,  range  upon  range  of  hills, 
melting  from  purple  into  pale  lavender  against 
the  distant  sky. 

Behind  the  house  was  another  and  smaller  lawn, 
broken  in  the  middle  by  a  great  marble  basin 
filled  with  crystal  water,  whereon  rested  the  smooth 
flat  leaves  of  water-lilies,  and,  in  their  time,  the 
big   white    blossoms  of   the   chalice-like    flowers 


IN  THE  GARDEN  125 

themselves.  A  little  fountain  sprang  from  the 
marble  basin,  making  melodious  music  as  the 
ascending  silver  stream  fell  back  once  more  towards 
its  source.  Fantailed  pigeons  preened  themselves 
on  the  edge  of  the  basin,  and  peacocks  strutted 
the  velvet  grass,  spreading  gorgeous  tails  of 
•waking  eyes  to  the  sun.  Beyond  the  lawn,  and 
separated  from  it  by  an  old  box  hedge,  was  an 
orchard,  where,  in  the  early  spring,  masses  of 
daffodils  danced  among  the  rough  grass,  and  where, 
later,  the  trees  were  covered  with  a  sheet  of  snowy 
blossoms — pear,  cherry,  plum,  and  apple.  A  mel- 
low brick  wall  enclosed  the  orchard,  a  wall  beauti- 
fied by  small  green  ferns,  by  pink  and  red  valerian, 
and  yellow  toadflax.  Behind  the  wall  lay  the 
kitchen  gardens  and  glass  houses,  which  ended  in 
another  wall  separating  them  from  a  wood  crown- 
ing the  heights  on  which  Chorley  Old  Hall  was 
situated. 

Had  Antony  had  a  free  choice  of  EngUsh  gardens 
in  which  to  work,  it  is  quite  conceivable  that  he 
had  chosen  these  very  ones  in  which  fate,  or 
Nicholas  Danver's  conditions,  had  placed  him. 
In  an  astonishingly  short  space  of  time  he  was 
taking  as  great  a  pride  in  them  as  Golding  himself. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that,  at  the  out- 
set, Golding  was  over-pleased  to  welcome  a  young 
man,  who  had  been  thrust  upon  him  from  the 
unknown  without  so  much  as  a  by  your  leave 
to  him.  For  the  first  week  or  so,  he  eyed  the  cheer- 
fully self-contained  young  gardener  with  something 


126         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

very  akin  to  suspicion,  merely  allotting  to  him  the 
heavy  and  commonplace  tasks  which  Antony  had 
foreseen  as  his. 

Antony  made  no  attempt  to  impress  Golding 
with  the  fact  that  his  knowledge  of  fruit  growing, 
if  not  of  floriculture,  was  certainly  on  a  level  with 
his  own.  It  was  mere  chance  that  brought  the 
fact  to  light, — the  question  of  a  somewhat  unusual 
blight  that  had  appeared  on  a  fruit  tree.  Antony 
happened  to  be  in  the  vicinity  of  the  peach  tree 
when  Golding  was  remarking  on  it  to  another 
gardener.  Five  minutes  later,  the  second  gardener 
having  departed,  Antony  approached  Golding. 
He  respectfully  mentioned  the  nature  of  the  blight, 
and  suggested  a  remedy.  It  led  to  a  conversation, 
in  which  Golding's  eyes  were  very  considerably 
opened.  He  was  not  a  man  to  continue  to  indulge 
in  prejudice  merely  because  it  had  formerly  existed 
in  his  mind.  He  realized  all  at  once  that  he  had 
found  a  kindred  spirit  in  Antony,  and  a  kind  of 
friendship  between  the  two,  having  its  basis  on 
horticulture,  was  the  result.  Not  that  he  showed 
him  the  smallest  favouritism,  however.  That 
would  have  been  altogether  outside  his  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things. 

There  were  moments  when  Antony  found  the 
situation  extraordinarily  amusing.  Leaning  on  his 
spade,  he  would  look  up  from  some  freshly  turned 
patch  of  earth  towards  the  old  grey  house,  a  light 
of  humorous  laughter  in  his  eyes.  Virtually  speak- 
ing the  place  was  his  own  already.     The  months 


IN  THE  GARDEN  127 

ahead,  till  he  should  enter  into  possession,  were  but 
an  accidental  interlude,  in  a  manner  of  speaking. 
He  was  already  planning  a  little  drama  in  his  own 
mind.  He  saw  himself  sauntering  into  the  garden 
one  fine  morning,  with  Josephus  at  his  heels. 

"Ah,  by  the  way,  Golding,"  he  would  say, 
"I'm  thinking  we  might  have  a  bed  of  cosmos  in 
the  southern  corner  of  the  Tangle  Garden. " 

It  would  do  as  well  as  any  other  remark  for 
a  beginning,  and  he  would  like  a  bed  of  cosmos. 
He  could  picture  Golding's  stare  of  dignified 
amazement. 

"Are  you  giving  orders?"  he  could  imagine 
his  querying  with  dry  sarcasm. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  Antony  heard  himself 
answering.  "Though  if  you  have  any  objection  to 
the  cosmos — "     And  he  would  pause. 

Golding  wotdd  naturally  think  that  he  had 
taken  leave  of  his  senses. 

"Under  the  impression  you're  master  here, 
perhaps?"  Golding  might  say.  Anyhow  those 
were  the  words  Antony  put  into  his  mouth. 

"I  just  happen  to  have  that  notion,"  Antony 
would  reply  pleasantly. 

"Since  when?"  Golding  ought  to  ask. 

"The  notion,"  Antony  would  reply  slowly, 
*'has  been  more  or  less  in  my  mind  since  a  year 
ago  last  March.  I  am  not  sure  whether  the  fact 
dated  from  that  month,  or  came  into  actuality  this 
morning. " 

There  his  imagination  would  fail  him.     There 


128         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

wotild  be  an  interim.  Then  the  scene  would 
conclude  by  their  having  a  drink  together,  Gold- 
ing  looking  at  Antony  over  his  glass  to  utter  at  slow 
intervals. 

"WeU,  I'm  jiggered." 

It  was  so  possible  a  little  drama,  so  even  prob- 
able a  little  drama,  it  is  small  wonder  that  Antony 
found  himself  chuckling  quietly  every  now  and 
then  as  he  considered  it.  The  only  thing  was,  that 
he  wanted  it  to  hurry  up,  and  that  not  solely  for 
his  own  sake,  nor  for  the  sake  of  his  secret  hopes, 
nor  for  the  sake  of  watching  Golding's  amazed 
face  during  the  enactment  of  the  little  drama,  but 
quite  largely  for  the  sake  of  the  big  grey  house, 
which  lay  before  him. 

It  looked  so  terribly  lonely;  it  looked  dead.  It 
was  like  a  flower-sturounded  corpse.  That  there 
actually  was  life  within  it,  he  was  aware,  since 
he  had  once  seen  a  white-haired  man  at  a  window, 
who,  so  a  fellow-gardener  had  informed  him  on 
being  questioned  later,  must  have  been  the  old 
butler.  He  and  his  wife  had  been  left  in  charge  as 
caretakers.  All  the  other  indoor  servants  had  been 
dismissed  by  Doctor  Hilary  on  his  return  from 
that  fateful  journey  from  London.  Somehow  the 
man's  presence  at  the  window  had  seemed  but 
to  emphasize  the  loneliness,  the  odd  corpse-like 
atmosphere  of  the  house.  It  was  as  if  a  face  had 
looked  out  from  a  cofKn.  Antony  never  had 
nearer  view  of  either  the  butler  or  his  wife.  Trades- 
people  called    for   orders,   he    believed;    but,    if 


IN  THE  GARDEN  129 

either  the  man  or  woman  ever  sought  the  fresh  air, 
it  must  be  after  the  work  in  the  gardens  was  over 
for  the  day. 

Antony  liked  to  picture  himself  restoring  Hfe 
to  the  old  place.  Now  and  again  he  allowed  him- 
self to  see  a  woman  aiding  him  in  the  pleasant  task. 
He  would  picture  her  standing  by  the  simdial,  look- 
ing out  towards  the  sparkHng  water;  standing  by 
the  marble  basin  with  white  pigeons  alighted  at  her 
feet,  and  peacocks  strutting  near  her;  walking 
among  the  marble  statues,  with  a  book;  passing  up 
the  wide  steps  of  the  solitary  house,  taking  with 
her  the  sunshine  of  the  garden  to  cheer  its  gloom. 

His  heart  still  held  hope  as  its  guest.  He  had 
put  the  thought  of  that  possible  emergency  from 
him  on  the  same  afternoon  as  he  had  decided  on 
his  course  of  action,  shotild  it  arise.  He  never 
crossed  bridges  before  he  came  to  them,  as  the 
saying  is.  He  might  recognize  their  possible 
existence,  he  might  recognize  the  possibility  of 
being  called  upon  to  cross  them,  even  recognize 
to  the  full  all  the  unpleasantness  he  would  find 
on  the  other  side.  Having  done  so,  he  resolutely 
refused  to  approach  them  till  driven  thereto  by 
fate. 

He  found  a  deHght,  too,  in  his  little  English 
cottage,  in  his  tiny  orchard,  and  tinier  garden. 
Each  evening  saw  him  at  work  in  it,  first  clearing 
the  place  of  weeds,  reducing  it  to  something  like 
order;  later,  putting  in  plants,  and  sowing  seeds. 
Each  Simday  morning  saw  him  walking  the  lonely 


130         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

beach  with  Josephus,  and,  when  Mass  was  over, 
seeking  the  Httle  church  where  the  Duchessa  had 
formerly  worshipped,  and  would  worship  again. 
Added  to  the  quite  extraordinary  pleasure  he  felt 
in  sitting  in  her  very  chair,  was  strange  sense  of 
peace  in  the  Httle  building.  Father  Dormer  became 
quite  accustomed  to  seeing  the  solitary  figure  in  the 
church.  Of  course  later,  Antony  knew,  it  might  be 
desirable  that  these  visits  should  cease,  but  till  the 
end  of  June,  at  all  events,  he  was  safe. 

On  Saturday  and  Sunday  afternoons  and  even- 
ings he  took  long  walks  inland,  exploring  moor- 
land, wood,  and  stream,  and  recalling  many  a 
childish  memory.  He  found  the  pond  where  he 
had  endangered  his  Hfe  at  the  instigation  of  the 
fair-haired  angel,  whose  name  he  could  not  yet 
recall.  The  pond  had  not  shrunk  in  size  as  is 
usual  with  childhood's  recollections;  on  the  con- 
trary it  was  quite  a  large  pond,  a  deep  pond,  and  he 
found  himself  marvelling  that  he  had  ever  had 
the  temerity  to  attempt  to  cross  it  on  so  insecure 
a  bark  as  a  mere  log  of  wood.  Possibly  the 
angel  had  been  particularly  insistent,  and,  despite 
the  fact  that  he  was  a  good  many  years  her  senior, 
he  had  feared  her  scorn.  He  found  the  wood 
where  he  and  she  had  been  caught  kneeling  by  the 
pheasant's  nests.  It  had  been  well  for  him  that 
the  contents  had  not  already  been  transferred  to 
his  pockets.  The  crime  had  been  in  embryo,  so 
to  speak,  performed,  by  good  chance,  merely  in 
intention  rather  than  in  deed. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  131 

Now  the  wood  was  a  mass  of  shimmering  blue- 
bells, and  alive  with  the  notes  of  song  birds. 
Antony  would  lie  at  full  length  on  the  moss,  listen- 
ing to  the  various  notes,  dreamily  content  as  his 
body  luxuriated  in  temporary  idleness.  As  the 
afternoon  passed  into  evening  the  sound  of  a  church 
bell  would  float  up  to  him  from  the  hidden  village. 
He  had  discovered  by  now  another  church,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  village,  an  old  stone  edifice  dating 
from  long  before  the  times  of  the  so-called  reforma- 
tion. It  never  claimed  him  as  a  visitor,  how- 
ever; it  held  no  attraction  for  him  as  did  the  little 
bam-like  building  on  the  quay.  The  sound  of  the 
bell  would  rouse  him  to  matters  present,  and  he 
would  return  to  his  cottage  to  prepare  his  evening 
meal,  after  which  he  sat  in  the  little  parlour  with 
pipe  and  book. 

Thus  quietly  the  days  passed  by.  May  gave 
place  to  June,  with  meadows  waist  high  in  per- 
fumed grass,  and  hedges  fragrant  with  honey- 
suckle, while  Antony's  thoughts  went  more 
frequently  out  to  Woodleigh  and  the  Duchessa's 
return. 

He  had  seen  the  little  place  from  the  moorland, 
looking  down  into  it  where  it  lay  in  a  hollow  among 
the  trees.  He  had  seen  the  one  big  house  it 
boasted,  white-walled  and  thatch-roofed,  half- 
hidden  by  climbing  roses.  Before  many  days  were 
passed  the  Duchessa  would  be  once  more  within  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A   MEETING 

And  as  the  end  of  June  drew  nearer,  Antony- 
found  himself  once  more  contemplating  a  possible 
meeting  with  the  Duchessa,  contemplating,  also, 
the  worst  that  meeting  might  hold  in  store. 

An  odd,  indefinable  restlessness  was  upon  him. 
He  told  himself  quite  plainly  that,  in  all  probabiHty 
before  many  weeks,  many  days  even,  were  passed, 
there  would  be  a  severance  of  that  friendship 
which  meant  so  much  to  him.  He  forced  himself 
to  reaHze  it,  to  dwell  upon  it,  to  bring  consciously 
home  to  his  soul  the  blankness  the  severance  would 
bring  with  it.  There  was  a  certain  relief  in  facing 
the  worst ;  yet  he  could  not  always  face  it.  There 
was  the  trouble.  Now  and  then  a  hope,  which  he 
told  himself  was  futile,  would  spring  unbidden  to 
his  heart,  establish  itself  as  a  radiant  guest.  Yet 
presently  it  would  depart,  mocking  him;  or  fade 
into  nothingness  leaving  a  blank  greyness  in  its 
stead. 

Uncertainty — though  reason  told  him  none 
was  existent — tantahzed,    tormented   him.     And 

132 


A  MEETING  133 

then,  when  certainty  came  nearest  home  to  him, 
he  knew  he  had  still  to  learn  the  final  and  definite 
manner  of  its  coming.  That  it  must  inevitably  be 
preceded  by  moments  of  soul  torture  he  was  aware. 
Yet  what  precise  form  would  that  soul  torture 
take? 

He  put  the  query  aside.  He  dared  not  face 
it.  Once,  lying  wide-eyed  in  the  darkness,  gazing 
through  the  small  square  of  his  window  at  the  star- 
powdered  sky  without,  an  odd  smile  had  twisted 
his  lips.  Pain,  bodily  pain,  had  at  one  time  been 
his  close  companion  for  weeks,  he  had  then  fancied 
he  had  known  once  and  for  all  the  worst  of  her 
torments.  He  knew  now  that  her  deahngs  with 
the  body  are  quite  extraordinarily  light  in  compari- 
son to  her  dealings  with  the  mind.  And  this  was 
only  anticipation. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  he  started  off  for  a 
walk  on  a  hitherto  untried  route.  It  was  in  a 
direction  entirely  opposite  to  Woodleigh,  which  he 
now  wished  to  avoid. 

Half  an  hour's  walking  brought  him  to  a  wide 
expanse  of  moorland,  as  lonely  a  spot  as  can  well  be 
imagined.  Behind  him  lay  Byestry  and  the  sea ;  to 
his  left,  also,  lay  the  sea,  since  the  coast  took  a  deep 
tiun  northwards  about  three  miles  or  so  to  the 
west  of  Byestry;  to  the  right,  and  far  distant,  lay 
Woodleigh.  Before  him  was  the  moorland,  cov- 
ered with  heather  and  gorse  bushes.  About  half  a 
mile  distant  it  descended  in  a  gentle  decline,  possi- 


134  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

bly  to  some  hidden  village  below,  since  a  broadish 
grass  path,  or  species  of  roadway  bearing  wheel 
tracts,  showed  that,  despite  its  present  loneliness, 
it  was  at  times  traversed  by  human  beings. 

Antony  sat  down  by  a  gorse  bush,  whose  golden 
flowers  were  scenting  the  air  with  a  sweet  aromatic 
scent.  Mingling  with  their  scent  was  the  scent 
of  thyme  and  heather,  and  the  hot  scent  of  the 
simbaked  earth.  Bees  boomed  lazily  in  the  still 
air,  and  far  off  was  the  faint  melodious  note  of  the 
ever-moving  sea.  The  sim  was  hot  and  the 
droning  of  the  bees  drowsy  in  its  insistence. 
After  a  few  moments  Antony  stretched  himself 
comfortably  on  the  heather,  and  slept. 

A  slight  sound  roused  him,  and  he  sat  up,  for 
the  first  moment  barely  realizing  his  whereabouts. 
Then  he  saw  the  source  of  the  soimd  which  had 
awakened  him.  Coming  along  the  grass  path,  and 
not  fifty  paces  from  him,  was  a  small  pony  and 
trap,  driven  by  a  woman.  Antony  looked  to- 
wards it,  and,  as  he  looked,  he  felt  his  heart  jump, 
leap,  and  set  off  pounding  at  a  terrible  rate. 

In  two  minutes  the  trap  was  abreast  him,  and 
the  little  Dartmoor  pony  was  brought  to  a  sudden 
standstill.    Antony  had  got  to  his  feet. 

"Mr.  Gray,"  exclaimed  an  astonished  voice, 
though  very  assuredly  there  was  a  note  of  keen 
dehght  mingled  with  the  astonishment. 

Antony  pulled  off  his  cap. 

"Fancy  meeting  you  here!"  cried  the  Duchessa 
di  Donatello.     "  Why  ever  didn't  you  let  me  know 


A  MEETING  135 

that  you  were  in  these  parts?  Or,  perhaps  you 
have  only  just  arrived,  and  were  going  to  come  and 
see  me?" 

There   was   the   fraction   of   a   pause.     Then, 

"I've  been  at  Byestry  since  the  beginning  of 
May, "  said  Antony. 

"At  Byestry,"  exclaimed  the  Duchessa.  "But 
why  ever  didn't  you  tell  me  when  you  wrote, 
instead  of  saying  it  was  impossible  to  come  and 
see  me?" 

"I  didn't  know  then  that  Woodleigh  and 
Byestry  lay  so  near  together,"  said  Antony.  And 
then  he  stopped.  What  on  earth  was  he  to  say 
next? 

The  Duchessa  looked  at  him.  There  was  an 
oddness  in  his  manner  she  could  not  understand. 
He  seemed  entirely  different  from  the  man  she 
had  known  on  the  Fort  Salisbury.  Yet — well, 
perhaps  it  was  only  fancy. 

"You  know  now,  anyhow,"  she  responded 
gaily.  "And  you  must  come  and  see  me. "  Then 
her  glance  fell  upon  his  clothes.  Involuntarily  a 
little  puzzlement  crept  into  her  eyes,  a  little  amazed 
query. 

"What  are  you  doing  at  Byestry?"  she  asked. 
The  question  had  come.  Antony's  hand  clenched 
on  the  side  of  the  pony-trap. 

"Oh,  I'm  one  of  the  under-gardeners  at  Chorley 
Old  Hall,"  he  responded  cheerfully,  and  as  if  it 
were  the  most  entirely  natural  thing  in  the  worlds 
though  his  heart  was  as  heavy  as  lead. 


136  ANTONY  GRAY, ^GARDENER 

"What  do  you  mean?"  queried  the  Duchessa 
bewildered. 

"Just  that,"  said  Antony,  still  cheerfully, 
"under-gardener  at  Chorley  Old  Hall." 

"But  why?"  demanded  the  Duchessa,  the 
tiniest  frown  between  her  eyebrows. 

"Because  it  is  my  work,"  said  Antony  briefly. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"But  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  the 
Duchessa  slowly.     "You — ^you  aren't  a  labourer. " 

Antony  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"That  happens  to  be  exactly  what  I  am,"  he 
responded. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Gray?"  There  was 
bewilderment  in  the  words. 

"Exactly  what  I  have  said,"  returned  Antony 
almost  stubbornly.  "I  am  under-gardener  at 
Chorley  Old  Hall,  or,  in  other  words,  a  labourer. 
I  get  a  pound  a  week  wage,  and  a  furnished  cottage, 
for  which  I  pay  five  shillings  a  week  rent.  My 
name,  by  the  way,  is  Michael  Field." 

The  Duchessa  looked  straight  at  him. 

"Then  on  the  ship  you  pretended  to  be  some- 
one you  were  not?"  she  asked  slowly. 

Antony  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"That  was  the  reason  you  wrote  and  said  you 
couldn't  see  me?" 

Again  Antony  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

The  Duchessa's  face  was  white. 

"Why  did  you  pretend  to  be  other  than  you 
were?"  she  demanded. 


A  MEETING  137 

Antony  was  silent. 

*'I  suppose,"  she  said  slowly,  "that,  for  all 
your  talk  of  friendship,  you  did  not  trust  me 
sufficiently.  You  did  not  trust  my  friendship 
had  I  known,  and  therefore  you  deliberately 
deceived  me  all  the  time." 

Still  Antony  was  silent. 

"  You  really  meant  to  deceive  me?  "  There  was 
an  odd  note  of  appeal  in  her  voice. 

"If  you  like  to  call  it  that,"  replied  Antony 
steadily. 

"What  else  can  I  call  it?"  she  flashed. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"I  should  be  grateful  if  you  would  not  mention 
having  known  me  as  Antony  Gray, "  said  Antony 
suddenly. 

"I  certainly  do  not  intend  to  refer  to  that 
unfortunate  episode  again,"  she  replied  icily.  "As 
far  as  I  am  concerned  it  will  be  blotted  from  my 
memory  as  completely  as  I  can  wipe  out  so  dis- 
agreeable an  incident.  Will  you,  please,  take  your 
hand  off  my  trap." 

Antony  withdrew  his  hand  as  if  the  trap  had 
stung  him. 

The  Duchessa  touched  the  pony  with  her  whip, 
Antony  stood  looking  after  them.  When,  once 
more,  the  moorland  was  deserted,  he  sat  down 
again  on  the  heather. 

Josephus,  returning  from  a  rabbit  himt  more 
than  an  hour  later,  found  him  still  there  in  the 
same  position.      Disturbed  by  something  queer 


138  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

in  his  deity's  mood,  he  thrust  a  wet  black  nose 
into  his  hand. 

The  touch  roused  Antony.  He  looked  up,  half 
dazed.     Then  he  saw  Josephus. 

"I've  done  it  now,  old  man,"  he  said.  And 
there  was  a  queer  little  catch  in  his  voice. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AT  THE  MANOR  HOUSE 

The  Duchessa  di  Donatello  was  sitting  at 
dinner.  Silver  and  roses  gleamed  on  the  white 
damask  of  the  table-cloth.  The  French  windows 
stood  wide  open,  letting  in  the  soft  air  of  the 
warm  June  evening.  Through  the  windows  she 
could  see  the  lawn  surroimded  by  elms,  limes,  and 
walnut  trees.  The  sun  was  slanting  low  behind 
them,  throwing  long  blue  shadows  on  the  grass. 
A  thrush  sang  in  one  of  the  elm  trees,  a  brown 
songster  caroUing  his  vespers  from  a  topmost 
branch. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  table  sat  a  kindly-faced 
middle-aged  woman,  in  a  grey  dress  and  a  lace 
fichu  fastened  with  a  large  cameo  brooch.  She 
was  Miss  Esther  Tibbutt,  the  Duchessa's  pres- 
ent companion,  and  one-time  governess.  Now 
and  then  she  looked  across  the  table  towards 
the  Duchessa,  with  a  little  hint  of  anxiety  in  her 
eyes,  but  her  conversation  was  as  brisk  and 
imfiagging  as  usual. 

"I  hope  you  had  a  nice  drive  this  afternoon, 
139 


140  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

my  dear.  And  did  Clinker  go  well?"  Clinker 
was  the  Dartmoor  pony. 

The  Duchessa  roused  herself.  She  was  evi- 
dently preoccupied  about  something,  thought  Miss 
Tibbutt. 

"Oh,  yes,  very  well.  And  he  has  quite  got 
over  objecting  to  the  little  stream  by  Crossways. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  nodded  approvingly. 

"I  thought  he  would  in  time.  So  you  went 
right  over  the  Crossways.  Which  way  did  you 
come  home?" 

"Over  Stagmoor,"  said  the  Duchessa  briefly, 

'  *  Stagmoor, ' '  echoed  Miss  Tibbutt.  ' '  My  dear, 
that  is  such  a  lonely  road.  I  should  have  been 
quite  anxious  had  I  known.  Supposing  you  had 
an  accident  it  might  be  hours  before  any  one  foimd 
you.     I  suppose  you  didn't  see  a  soul?" 

"Oh,  just  one  man,"  returned  the  Duchessa 
carelessly. 

"A  labourer  I  suppose,"  queried  Miss  Tibbutt. 

* '  Yes,  only  a  labourer, ' '  responded  the  Duchessa 
quietly. 

Miss  Tibbutt  was  silent.  She  had  a  vague 
feeling  of  uneasiness,  and  yet  she  did  not  know  why 
she  had  it.  She  was  perfectly  certain  that  some- 
thing was  wrong;  and,  whatever  that  something 
was,  it  had  occurred  between  the  time  Pia  had  set 
off  in  the  pony-cart  with  Clinker  after  lunch,  and 
her  return,  very  late  for  tea,  in  the  evening.  Also, 
Pia  had  said  she  didn't  want  any  tea,  but  had  gone 
straight  to  her  room.     And  that  was  imlike  her, — 


AT  THE  MANOR  HOUSE  141 

certainly  unlike  her.  It  would  have  been  far  more 
natural  for  her  to  have  ordered  a  fresh  supply,  and 
insisted  on  Miss  Tibbutt  sharing  it  with  her,  quite 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  she  had  already  had  all 
the  tea  she  wanted,  and  was  going  to  eat  again  at  a 
quarter  to  eight. 

"I  walked  over  to  Byestry, "  said  Miss  Tibbutt 
presently.  "Yes,  I  know  it  was  very  hot,  but  I 
walked  slowly,  and  took  my  largest  simshade.  I 
wanted  to  get  some  black  silk  to  mend  one  of  my 
dresses.  I  saw  Father  Dormer.  He  was  very  glad 
to  hear  that  you  were  back.  I  told  him  you  had 
only  arrived  on  Thursday,  and  I  had  come  on  the 
Tuesday  to  get  things  ready  for  you.  My  dear,  he 
told  me  Mr.  Danver  is  dead. " 

"Mr.  Danver,"  exclaimed  the  Duchessa,  her 
preoccupation  for  the  moment  forgotten. 

"Yes.  I  wonder  none  of  the  servants  happened 
to  mention  it.  But  I  suppose  they  forgot  we  didn't 
know,  and  probably  they  have  forgotten  all  about 
the  poor  man  by  now.  It's  sad  to  think  how  soon 
one  is  forgotten.  It  appears  he  went  to  London 
in  March  with  Doctor  Hilary  to  consult  a  specialist 
and  died  the  day  after  his  arrival  in  town.  Per- 
haps the  journey  was  too  much  for  him.  I  should 
think  it  might  have  been,  but  Doctor  Hilary  would 
know  best,  or  perhaps  ^Ir.  Danver  insisted  on 
going.  Anyhow  the  place  is  in  the  hands  of  care- 
takers now;  the  butler  and  his  wife  are  looking 
after  it  till  the  heir  turns  up,  whoever  he  may  be. 
There's  a  rumour  that  he  is  an  American,  but  no 


142  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

one  seems  to  know  for  certain.  But  they  must  be 
keeping  the  garden  in  good  order.  Golding  is 
staying  on,  and  the  other  men,  and  they've  just 
got  another  under-gardener. "     She  paused. 

"Have  they?"  said  the  Duchessa  carelessly,  and 
a  trifle  coldly.  Nevertheless  a  little  colour  had 
flushed  into  her  cheeks. 

"I'm  afraid  you  think  I'm  a  terrible  gossip," 
said  Miss  Tibbutt  apologetically.  "I  really  don't 
mean  to  be.  But  in  a  little  place,  little  things 
interest  one.  I  am  afraid  I  did  ask  Father  Dor- 
mer a  good  many  questions.  I  hope  he  didn't — " 
And  she  broke  off  anxiously. 

"You  dear  old  Tibby, "  smiled  the  Duchessa, 
*'I'm  siu-e  he  didn't.  Nobody  thinks  you're  a 
gossip.  Gossiping  is  talking  about  things  people 
don't  want  known,  and  generally  things  that  are 
rather  unkind,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  You're  the 
soul  of  honour  and  charity,  and  Father  Dormer 
knows  that  as  well  as  everyone  else." 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  expostulated  Miss  Tibbutt. 
But  I'm  glad  you  think  he  didn't " 

The  Duchessa  got  up  from  the  table. 

"Of  course  he  didn't.  Let  us  go  into  the 
garden,  and  have  coffee  out  there.  The  fresh  air 
will  blow  away  the  cobwebs. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  followed  the  Duchessa  through 
the  French  window  and  across  the  wide  gravel 
path,  on  to  the  lawn.  The  Duchessa  led  the  way 
to  a  seat  beneath  the  lime  trees.  The  bees  were 
droning  among  the  hanging  flowers. 


AT  THE  MANOR  HOUSE  143 

"Have  you  any  cobwebs  in  your  mind,  my 
dear?"  asked  Miss  Tibbutt  as  they  sat   down. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"   queried  the   Duchessa. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  I  don't  know.  You  said 
that  about  cobwebs,  you  see.  And  I  thought 
you  seemed — ^well,  just  a  little  preoccupied  at 
dinner. " 

There  was  a  little  silence. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Miss  Tibbutt. 
,  "There's  nothing  to  tell,"  said  the  Duchessa 
lightly.  "A  rather  pretty  soap-bubble  burst  and 
turned  into  an  unpleasant  cobweb,  that's  all. 
So — ^well,  I've  just  been  brushing  my  mind  clear 
of  both  the  cobweb  and  the  memory  of  the  soap- 
bubble." 

"You're  certain  it — ^the  cobweb — ^isn't  worrying 
you  now? "  asked  Miss  Tibbutt. 

"My  dear  Tibby,  it  has  ceased  to  exist," 
laughed  the  Duchessa. 

It  was  a  very  reassuring  little  laugh.  Miss 
Tibbutt  knew  it  to  be  quite  abstud  that,  in  spite 
of  it,  she  still  could  not  entirely  dispel  that  vague 
sense  of  uneasiness.  It  spoilt  the  keen  pleasure 
she  ordinarily  took  in  the  garden,  especially  in  the 
evening  and  most  particularly  in  the  month  of 
June.  She  had  a  real  sentiment  about  the  month 
of  June.  From  the  first  day  to  the  last  she  held 
the  hours  tenderly,  lingeringly,  loath  to  let  them  slip 
between  her  fingers.  There  were  only  three  more 
days  left,  and  now  there  was  this  tiny  uneasiness, 
"which  prevented  her  mind  from  entirely  concen- 


144  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

trating  on  the  happiness  of  these  remaining 
Jiours. 

And  then  she  gave  herself  a  little  mental  shake. 
It  was,  after  all,  a  selfish  consideration  on  her 
part.  If  there  were  cause  for  uneasiness,  she 
ought  to  be  thinking  of  Pia  rather  than  herself, 
and  if  there  were  no  cause — and  Pia  had  just  de- 
clared there  was  not — she  was  being  thoroughly 
absurd.  She  gave  herself  a  second  mental  shake, 
and  looked  towards  the  house,  whence  a  young 
footman  was  just  emerging  with  a  tray  on  which 
were  two  coffee  cups  and  a  sugar  basin.  He  put 
the  tray  down  on  a  small  rustic  table  near  them, 
and  went  back  the  way  he  had  come,  his  step 
making  no  soimd  on  the  soft  grass. 

"I  wonder  what  it  feels  Hke  to  be  a  servant, 
and  have  to  do  everjrthing  to  time,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "It  must  be  trying  to  have  to  be 
invariably  punctual. " 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Miss  Tibbutt  was 
exceedingly  punctual,  but  then  it  was  by  no  means 
absolutely  incumbent  upon  her  to  be  so ;  she  could 
quite  well  have  absented  herself  entirely  from  a 
meal  if  she  desired.  That,  of  coiurse,  made  all  the 
difference. 

"You  are  pimctual,"  said  the  Duchessa  laughing. 

"I  know.  But  it  wouldn't  in  the  least  matter 
if  I  were  not.  You  could  go  on  without  me.  You 
couldn't  very  well  go  on  if  Dale  had  forgotten  to 
lay  the  table,  or  if  Morris  had  felt  disinclined  to 
cook  the  food. " 


AT  THE  MANOR  HOUSE  145' 

"No,"  agreed  the  Duchessa.  And  then,  after 
a  moment,  she  said,  "Anyhow  there  are  some 
things  we  have  to  do  to  time — Mass  on  Sundays 
and  days  of  obligation,  for  instance. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  nodded.  "Oh,  of  course.  But 
that's  generally  only  once  a  week.  Besides  that's 
different.  It's  a  big  voice  that  tells  one  to  do 
that — the  voice  of  the  Church.  The  other  is  a 
little  himian  voice  giving  the  orders.  I  know,  in  a 
sense,  one  ought  to  hear  the  big  voice  behind  it  all ; 
but  sometimes  one  would  forget  to  listen  for  it. 
At  least,  I  know  I  should.  And  then  I  should 
simply  hate  the  routine,  and  doing  things — little 
ordinary  everyday  things — to  time.  I'd  just 
love  to  say,  if  I  were  cook,  that  there  shouldn't 
be  any  meals  to-day,  or  that  they  should  be 
an  hour  later,  or  an  hour  earlier,  to  suit  my 
fancy." 

The  Duchessa  laughed  again. 

"My  dear  Tibby,  it's  quite  obvious  that  your 
vocation  is  not  to  the  religious  life.  Fancy  you  in 
a  convent!  I  can  imagine  you  suggesting  to  the 
Reverend  Mother  that  a  change  in  the  time  of 
saying  divine  office  would  be  desirable,  or  at  all 
events  that  it  should  be  varied  on  alternate  days; 
and  I  can  see  you  going  off  for  long  and  rampageous 
days  in  the  country,  just  for  a  change. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  gravely.  "I  should  hear 
the  big  voice  there. " 

"You'd  hear  it  speak  through  quite  a  num- 


146  ANTONY  GRAY —GARDENER 

ber  of  human  voices,  anyhow,"  returned  the 
Duchessa. 

There  was  a  silence.  She  wondered  what  odd 
coincidence  had  led  Tibby  to  such  a  subject. 
If  it  were  not  a  coincidence,  it  must  be  a  kind  of 
thought  transference.  Almost  unconsciously  she 
had  been  seeing  a  tall,  thin,  brown-faced  man 
marching  off  in  the  early  morning  hours  to  his 
work  in  a  garden.  She  had  seen  him  busy  with 
hoe  and  spade,  till  the  bell  over  the  stables  at  the 
Hall  announced  the  dinner  hoiu-.  She  had  seen 
him  again  take  up  his  implements  at  the  summons 
of  the  same  bell,  working  through  the  sunshine 
or  the  rain,  as  the  case  might  be,  till  its  final  even- 
ing dismissal.  Above  all,  she  had  seen  him  tak- 
ing his  orders  from  Golding,  a  well-meaning  man 
truly,  and  an  exceedingly  capable  gardener,  but — 
well,  she  pictured  Antony  as  she  had  seen  him  in 
evening  dress  on  the  Fort  Salisbury,  as  she  had  seen 
him  throwing  coppers  to  the  browTi-faced  girl 
outside  the  Cathedral  at  Teneriffe,  as  she  had 
seen  him  sitting  in  the  Httle  coiutyard  with  the 
orange  trees  in  green  tubs,  and  the  idea  of  his 
receiving  and  taking  orders  from  Golding  seemed 
to  her  quite  extraordinarily  incongruous. 

Yet  until  Miss  Tibbutt  had  introduced  the 
subject,  she  had  been  more  or  less  unaware  of 
these  mental  pictures. 

"Besides,"  she  remarked  suddenly,  and  quite 
obviously  in  continuation  of  her  last  remark,  "it 
entirely  depends  on  what  you  have  been  brought 


AT  THE  MANOR  HOUSE  147 

up  to,  I  mean,  of  course  as  regards  the  question  of 
being  a  servant.  The  question  of  a  religious  is 
entirely  different." 

"Oh,  entirely,"  agreed  Miss  Tibbutt  promptly. 
"You  can  always  get  another  place  as  a  servant  if 
you  happen  to  dislike  the  one  you  are  in. " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Duchessa,  slowly  andthought- 
fuUy. 

A  sudden  little  anxious  pang  had  all  at  once 
stabbed  her  somewhere  near  the  region  of  the 
heart.  Would  that  be  the  effect  of  that  after- 
noon's meeting?  Most  assuredly  she  hoped  it 
would  not  be,  and  equally  assuredly  she  had  no 
idea  she  was  hoping  it ;  verily,  her  feeling  towards 
Antony  was  one  of  mingled  anger,  indignation,  and 
mortified  pride. 

Once  more  there  was  a  silence, — a  silence  in 
which  Miss  Tibbutt  sat  stirring  her  coffee,  and 
looking  towards  the  reflection  of  the  sunset  sky 
seen  through  the  branches  of  the  trees  opposite. 
Suddenly  she  spoke,  dismayed  apology  ia  her 
voice. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  so  sorry,  I  quite  forgot. 
A  letter  came  for  you  this  afternoon.  I  put  it 
down  on  the  little  round  table  in  the  drawing-room 
window,  meaning  to  give  it  to  you  when  you 
came  in.  But  you  went  straight  to  your  room, 
and  so  I  forgot  it.     I  will  get  it  at  once. " 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Duchessa  lightly,  "I 
will  get  it.  I  don't  suppose  for  an  instant  that  it 
is  important." 


148  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

She  got  up  and  went  across  the  lawn.  In  a 
minute  or  two  she  returned,  an  open  letter  in  her 
hand. 

"It's  from  Trix,"  she  announced  as  she  sat 
down  again.  "She  wants  to  know  if  she  can 
come  down  here  at  the  beginning  of  August. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  literally  beamed. 

"How  delightful!"  she  exclaimed.  "Trix  has 
never  stayed  with  you  here.  You  wiU  like  having 
her." 

"Dear  Trix, "  said  the  Duchessa. 

"I  do  so  enjoy  Trix,"  remarked  Miss  Tibbutt 
fervently. 

"So  do  most  people,"  smiled  the  Duchessa. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  DREAM  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

It  is  perfectly  amazing  to  what  a  degree  the 
physical  conditions  of  the  atmosphere  appear  to 
be  bound  up  with  one's  own  mental  atmosphere. 
In  the  more  ordinary  nature  of  things,  the  physical 
conditions  will  act  on  the  mental,  sending  your 
mind  up  to  the  point  marked  gaiety  when  the  sun 
shines,  dropping  it  down  to  despair — or,  at  any 
rate,  down  to  dulness — when  the  skies  are  leaden. 
Also,  in  more  extreme  cases,  the  mental  conditions 
will  act  on  the  physical,  if  not  actually,  at  least 
with  so  good  a  show  of  reality  as  to  appear  genuine. 
If  you  are  thoroughly  unhappy — no  mere,  light, 
passing  depression,  mind  you — ^it  matters  not  at 
all  how  brilliant  the  sunshine  may  be,  it  is  nothing 
but  grey  fog  for  all  you  see  of  it.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  are  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  joy,  the 
grey  clouds  are  suffused  with  a  golden  light  of 
radiance.     But  these  are  extreme  cases. 

It  was  an  extreme  case  with  Antony.  Despite 
the  sunshine  which  lay  upon  the  earth,  despite  the 
singing  of  the  birds  in  the  early  morning,  and  at 

149 


ISO  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

evening,  despite  the  flowers  which  displayed  their 
colours  and  lavished  their  scents  around  him  as  he 
worked,  the  world  might  have  been  bathed  in  fog 
for  all  he  saw  of  its  brightness.  Hope  had  taken 
imto  herself  wings  and  fled  from  him,  and  with  her 
joy  had  departed. 

He  felt  a  queer  bitterness  towards  his  work, 
a  bitterness  towards  the  garden  and  the  big  grey 
house,  and  most  particularly  towards  the  man  who 
had  lived  in  it,  and  who  was  responsible  for  his 
present  unhappiness.  He  had  none  towards  the 
Duchessa.  But  then,  after  all,  he  appeared  in  her 
eyes  as  a  fraud,  the  thing  of  all  others  he  himself 
most  detested.  He  could  not  possibly  blame  her 
for  her  attitude  in  the  matter.  Yet  all  the  time,  he 
had  a  queer  feeling  of  something  like  remorse  for 
his  present  bitterness;  it  was  almost  as  if  the 
garden  and  the  very  flowers  themselves  were  re- 
proaching him  for  it,  reminding  him  that  they 
were  not  to  blame.  And  then  a  little  incident 
suddenly  served  to  dispel  his  gloom,  at  all  events  in 
a  great  measure. 

It  was  a  slight  incident,  a  trivial  incident, 
merely  an  odd  dream.  Nevertheless,  having  in 
view  its  oddness,  and — unlike  most  dreams — its 
curious  connectedness,  also  its  effect  on  Antony's 
spirit,  it  may  be  well  to  record  it. 

He  dreamt  he  was  walking  in  a  garden.  He 
knew  it  was  the  garden  of  Chorley  Old  Hall, 
though  there  was  something  curiously  unlike  about 
it,  as  there  often  is  in  dreams.     The  garden  was 


.    A  DREAM  AND  OTHER  THINGS  '     151 

full  of  flowers,  and  he  could  smell  their  strong, 
sweet  scent.  At  one  side  of  the  garden — and 
this,  in  spite  of  that  curious  unlikeness,  was  the 
only  distinctly  unlike  thing  about  it — was  a  gate 
of  twisted  iron.  He  was  standing  a  long  way 
from  the  gate,  and  he  was  conscious  of  two  distinct 
moods  within  himself, — an  impulse  which  urged 
him  towards  the  gate,  and  something  which  held 
him  back  from  approaching  it. 

Suddenly,  from  another  direction,  he  saw  a 
woman  coming  towards  him.  Recognition  and 
amazement  fell  upon  him.  She  was  the  same 
small  girl  he  had  played  with  in  his  boyhood,  and 
whose  name  he  could  not  remember,  but  grown  to 
womanhood.  She  came  towards  him,  her  fair 
hair  uncovered,  and  shining  in  the  sunshine. 

As  she  reached  him  she  stood  still. 

"Antony,"  she  cried  in  her  old  imperious  way, 
"why  don't  you  go  to  the  gate  at  once?  She  is 
waiting  to  be  let  in. " 

"Who  is  waiting?"  he  demanded. 

"Go  and  see,"  she  retorted.  And  she  went  off 
among  the  flowers,  turning  once  to  laugh  back  at 
him  over  her  shoulder. 

Antony  stood  looking  after  her,  till  she  dis- 
appeared in  the  distance.  Then  he  went  slowly 
towards  the  gate.  As  he  came  near  it,  he  saw  a 
figure  standing  outside.  But  he  could  not  see  it 
distinctly,  because,  curiously  enough,  though  the 
garden  was  full  of  sunshine,  it  was  dark  outside  the 
gate,  as  if  it  were  night. 


152         ^ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Antony. 

The  figiire  made  no  reply. 

**What  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

Still  the  figure  made  no  reply. 

Antony  felt  his  heart  beating  quickly,  madly. 
And  then,  suddenly  from  a  distance  behind  him,  he 
heard  a  gay  mocking  voice. 

"Why  don't  you  open  the  gate,  silly?  Can't 
you  hear  her  knocking  ? " 

Still  Antony  stood  irresolute,  though  he  heard 
little  taps  falling  on  the  iron. 

"Open  it,  open  it,"  came  the  sweet  mocking 
voice,  this  time  with  a  suspicion  of  pleading 
in  it. 

Antony  went  towards  the  gate.  A  great  key 
was  sticking  in  the  iron  lock.  He  took  hold  of 
it  and  found  it  needed  the  strength  of  both  his 
hands  to  turn.  Then  he  flung  the  gate  wide  open. 
The  figure  moved  slowly  through  the  gate,  and 
into  the  full  sunshine. 

"Antony,"  she  said  smiling. 

*  *  You !     You  at  last ! "  he  cried. 

And  he  woke,  to  find  he  had  cried  the  words 
aloud.  He  sat  up  in  bed.  A  white  pigeon  was  on 
the  sill  outside  his  window,  tapping  with  its  beak 
on  the  glass. 

;  Of  course  it  was  an  entirely  trifling  incident, 
and  probably  he  was  superstitious  to  attach  any 
real  importance  to  it.  Nevertheless  it  had  a  very 
marked  influence  on  his  spirits. 

Doubtless  it  was  as  well  it  had,  since  about 


A  DREAM  AND  OTHER  THINGS       153 

this  time  a  certain  happening  occurred,  which, 
though  it  did  not  precisely  depress  him,  most 
assuredly  caused  him  considerable  anger  and 
indignation. 

In  spite  of  the  somewhat  hermit-like  life  he 
led,  he  nevertheless  had  something  of  an  acquaint- 
ance with  his  fellow-creatures.  Among  these 
fellow-creatures  there  was  one.  Job  Grantley,  a 
laboiu-er  on  the  home  farm,  possessed  of  a  pretty, 
rather  fragile  wife,  and  a  baby  of  about  three 
months  old.  Antony  had  a  kindly  feeling  for  the 
fellow,  and  often  they  exchanged  the  time  of  day 
when  meeting  on  the  road,  or  when  Job  chanced  to 
pass  Antony's  garden  in  the  evening. 

One  evening  Antony,  busy  weeding  his  small 
flagged  path,  saw  Job  in  the  road. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Antony;  and  then  he 
perceived  by  the  other's  face,  that  matters  were 
not  as  they  might  be. 

"Sure,  what's  amiss  with  the  world  at  all?'* 
demanded  Antony,  going  down  towards  the  gate. 

"It's  that  fellow  Curtis,"  said  Job  briefly, 
leaning  on  the  gate. 

"And  what '11  he  have  been  up  to  now?"  asked 
Antony.  It  would  not  be  the  first  time  he  had 
heard  tales  of  the  agent 

Job  kicked  the  gate. 

"Says  he's  wanting  my  cottage  for  a  chauffeur 
he's  getting  down  from  Bristol,  and  I'm  to  tiun  out 
at  the  end  of  August. " 

** Devil  take  the  man!"  cried  Antony.     "Why 


154  ANTONY  GRAY,-€ARDENER 

can't  his  new  chauffeur  be  living  in  the  room  above 
the  garage,  Hke  the  old  one?" 

Job  gninted.  "Because  this  one's  a  married 
man. " 

"And  where  are  you  to  go  at  all?"  demanded  a 
wrathful  Antony. 

"He  says  I  can  have  the  cottage  over  to  Cross- 
ways,"  said  Job.  "He  knows  'tis  three  mile 
farther  from  my  work.  But  that's  not  all.  'Tis 
double  the  rent,  and  I  can't  afford  it.  And  that's 
the  long  and  short  of  it. " 

Antony  dug  his  hoe  savagely  into  the  earth. 

"Why  can't  he  be  putting  his  own  chauffeur 
there,  and  be  paying  him  wage  enough  for  the 
higher  rent?"  he  asked. 

"Why  can't  he?"  said  Job  bitterly.  "Because 
he  won't.  He's  had  his  knife  into  me  ever  since 
March  last,  when  I  paid  up  my  rent  which  he 
thought  I  couldn't  do.  I'd  been  asking  him  for 
time;  then  the  last  day — well,  I  got  the  money.  I 
wasn't  going  to  tell  him  how  I  got  it,  and  he  thought 
I'd  been  crying  off  with  no  reason.  See?  Now  he 
thinks  he  can  force  me  to  the  higher  rent.  'Tis 
a  bigger  cottage,  but  'tis  so  far  off,  even  well-to-do 
folk  fight  shy  of  the  extra  walk,  and  so  it's  stood 
empty  a  year  and  more.  Now  he's  thinking  he'll 
force  my  hand. " 

Antony  frowned. 

"What'll  you  do?"  he  demanded. 

"The  Lord  knows,"  returned  Job  gloomily. 
"If  I  chuck  up  my  work  here,  how  do  I  know  I'll 


A  DREAM  AND  OTHER  THINGS      155 

get  a  job  elsewhere?  If  I  go  to  the  other  place 
I'll  be  behind  with  my  rent  for  dead  certain,  and 
get  kicked  out  of  that,  and  be  at  the  loss  of  ten 
shillings  or  so  for  the  move.  I've  not  told  the  wife 
yet.  But  I  can  see  nought  for  it  but  to  look  out 
for  a  job  elsewhere.  Wish  I'd  never  set  foot  in 
this  blasted  Uttle  Devonshire  village.  Wish  I'd 
stayed  in  my  own  parts. " 

Antony  was  making  a  mental  survey  of  affairs, 
a  survey  at  once  detailed  yet  rapid. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "I'd  give  a  pretty  good 
deal  to  get  even  with  that  old  skinflint,  I  would 
that.  You  and  your  wife  just  shift  up  along 
with  me.  There's  an  extra  room  upstairs  with  no- 
thing in  it  at  all.  We'll  manage  top  hole.  Sure, 
'twill  be  fine  havin'  me  cooking  done  for  me.  You 
can  be  giving  me  the  matter  of  a  shilling  a  week, 
and  let  the  cooking  go  for  the  rest  of  the  rent. 
What '11  you  be  thinking  at  all? " 

Now,  the  offer  was  prompted  by  sheer  impul- 
sive kind-heartedness,  wedded  to  a  keen  indig- 
nation at  injustice.  Yet  it  must  be  confessed 
that  a  sensation  exceeding  akin  to  dismay  followed 
close  on  its  heels.  Of  his  own  free  will  he  was 
flinging  his  privacy  from  him,  and  hugging  intru- 
sion to  his  heart. 

Job  shook  his  head. 

"You'll  not  stand  it,"  said  he  briefly.  "We 
don't  say  anything,  but  we  know  right  enough 
you're  a  come  down.  You  didn't  start  in  the  same 
mould  as  the  rest  of  us. " 


156  ANTONY  CRAY,— GARDENER 

"Rubbish,"  retorted  Antony  on  a  note  of  half- 
anger  and  wholly  aghast  at  the  other's  per- 
spicacity.    "I'm  the  same  clay  as  yourself. " 

"A  duke's  that,"  declared  Job,  "but  the  mould's 
different. " 

""Saints  alive!"  cried  Antony,  "it's  no  matter 
what  the  mould  may  be.  Sure,  it's  just  a  question 
of  what  it's  been  used  for  at  all.  My  mould  has 
been  used  for  labour  since  I  was  little  more  than  a 
boy,  and  stiffer  labour  than  this  little  smiling 
village  has  dreamt  of,  that's  sure.  Besides,  think 
of  your  wife  and  child,  man. " 

Job  hesitated,  debated  within  his  soul.  "It's 
them  I  am  thinking  of, "  he  said;  "I  could  fend  for 
myself  well  enough,  and  snap  my  fingers  at  Curtis 
and  his  like. " 

"Then,  'tis  settled,"  said  Antony  with  amazing 
cheerfulness. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Well,"  said  Job  at  last,  "if  you're  in  the 
same  mind  a  week  hence,  but  don't  you  go  for 
doing  things  in  a  hiury-like,  that  you'll  repent 
later." 

"'Tis  settled  now,"  said  Antony.  "Tell  your 
wife,  and  snap  your  fingers  at  that  old  cur- 
mudgeon. " 

Nevertheless  despite  his  cheery  assiu-ance,  he 
had  a  very  bitter  qualm  at  his  heart  as,  an  hour 
or  so  later,  he  looked  round  his  little  cottage,  and 
realized,  even  more  forcibly,  precisely  what  he  had 
done. 


A  DREAM  AND  OTHER  THINGS       157 

"Never  mind,"  he  told  himself  and  Josephus 
with  a  good  show  of  bravery,  "it's  not  for  a  life- 
time. And,  hang  it  all,  a  man's  mere  comfort 
ought  to  give  way  before  injustice  of  that  kind. " 

Thus  he  buoyed  himself  up. 

And  then  another  aspect  of  affairs  arose. 

No  one  knew  how  the  matter  of  the  intended 
arrangement  leaked  out.  Job  vowed  he'd  men- 
tioned it  to  no  one  but  his  wife;  his  wife  vowed 
she  mentioned  it  to  no  one  but  Job.  Perhaps 
they  spoke  too  near  an  open  window.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  Antony,  again  at  work  in  his  garden  one 
evening,  became  aware  of  Mr.  Curtis  looking  at 
him  over  the  little  hedge. 

"Good  evening, "  said  Mr.  Curtis  smoothly. 

"Good  evening, "  returned  Antony  equally 
smoothly,  and  going  on  with  his  work. 

"I  hear  you're  thinking  of  taking  in  lodgers," 
said  Mr.  Curtis  blandly. 

"Sure  now,  that's  interesting  hearing, "  returned 
Antony  pleasantly,  and  wondering  who  on  earth 
had  babbled. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Curtis,  still  blandly,  "I 
was  misinformed.  I  heard  the  Grantleys  were 
moving  up  here.  I  daresay  it  was  merely  an  idle 
rumour." 

"Sure  it  may  have  been, "  returned  Antony  non- 
chalantly, and  sticking  his  spade  into  the  grotmd. 

"It  must  have  been,"  said  Mr.  Ciutis  thought- 
fully. "All  lodging  houses  are  rented  at  ten 
shillings  a  week,  even  unfurnished  small  ones,  not 


158  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

five  shillings.  Besides  Grantley  is  only  getting  a 
pound  a  week  wage.  He  can't  afford  to  live  in 
apartments,  unless  he's  come  in  for  a  fortune. 
If  he  has  I  must  look  out  for  another  man.  Men 
with  fortunes  get  a  trifle  above  themselves,  you 
know.  Besides  he'd  naturally  not  wish  to  stay  on. 
But  of  course  the  whole  thing's  merely  a  rumour. 
I'd  contradict  it  if  I  were  you.  Good  evening." 
.  He  walked  up  the  lane  smiling. 
,  "You  bounder,"  said  Antony  softly,  looking 
after  him.  "Just  you  wait  till  next  March,  my 
friend." 

He  left  his  spade  stuck  into  the  earth,  and 
went  back  into  the  cottage.  Half  an  hour  later, 
he  was  walking  quickly  in  the  direction  of  Byestry, 

Doctor  Hilary  was  in  his  surgery,  when  he  was 
told  that  Michael  Field  had  asked  if  he  could  see 
him.  He  went  at  once  to  the  little  waiting-room. 
Antony  rose  at  his  entrance. 

"Good  evening,  sor, "  he  said,  touching  his  fore- 
head. "Can  you  be  sparing  me  five  minutes* 
talk?" 

"By  all  means,"  said  Doctor  Hilary.  "Sit 
down. " 

Antony  sat  down.  In  a  few  brief  words  he  put 
the  Grantley  affair  before  him. 

"Well?"  said  Doctor  Hilary,  as  he  finished. 

"Well,"  queried  Antony,  "can  nothing  be 
done?" 

Doctor  Hilary  shook  his  head.     "I  am  not  the 


A  DREAM  AND  OTHER  THINGS       159 

agent.     I  have  no  voice  in  the  management  of  the 
estate. " 

"Then  you  can  do  nothing?" 

"I  am  afraid  not. " 

"Thank  you, "  said  Antony,  "that's  all  I  wanted 
to  know. "     He  got  up. 

"Sit  down  again,"  said  Doctor  Hilary. 

Antony  sat  down. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  asked  Doctor 
Hilary  quietly. 

Antony  looked  directly  at  him. 

"The  only  thing  I  can  do.  I'll  get  that  extra 
rent  to  Job  somehow.  He  mustn't  know  it  comes 
from  me;  I  must  think  out  how  to  manage.  But, 
of  course,  that's  merely  a  make-shift  in  the  busi- 
ness.    I  wanted  the  injustice  put  straight. " 

Doctor  Hilary  looked  through  the  window 
behind  Antony. 

:    "Let  me  advise  you,"  said  he,  "to  do  nothing 
of  the  kind." 

* '  Why  not  ? '  *  The  words  came  short  and  rather 
quick. 

"Because  Mr.  Curtis  means  to  get  rid  of  Grant- 
ley.  He  has  got  his  knife  into  him,  as  Grantley 
said.  Your  action  would  merely  postpone  the 
evil  day,  and  make  it  worse  in  the  postponement. 
Job  Grantley  had  better  go. " 

"And  how  about  another  job?"  demanded 
Antony. 

Doctor  Hilary  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "He 
must  see  what  he  can  find." 


l6o  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

"Well  of  all  the — "  began  Antony.  And  then 
he  stopped.  After  all,  he'd  seen  enough  injustice 
in  his  time,  to  be  used  to  it. 

"You're  honest  in  saying  I  would  make  it  worse 
for  Job  if  I  tried  to  help  him?"  he  asked. 

"Perfectly  honest,"  said  Doctor  Hilary  with  an 
odd  little  smile. 

Antony  again  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"All  right,"  and  his  voice  was  constrained. 
"I'U  not  be  keeping  you  any  longer,  sor. " 

Doctor  Hilary  went  with  him  to  the  door. 

"I'm  sorry  about  this  business, "  he  said. 

"Are  you?"  said  Antony  indifferently. 

Doctor  Hilary  went  back  to  his  surgery. 

"He  didn't  believe  me,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"small  wonder." 

He  pulled  out  his  note-book  and  made  a  note  In 
it.  Then  he  shut  the  book  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"Anyhow,"  he  said,  "it's  the  kind  of  thing  we 
wanted. " 

The  memorandimi  he  had  entered,  ran: — 

"Write  Sinclair  re  Grantley. " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TRIX  ON  THE  SCENE 

"TiBBY,  angel,  what's  the  matter  with  Pia?'* 

Trix  Devereux  was  sitting  on  the  little  rustic 
table  beneath  the  lime  trees,  smoking  a  cigarette. 
Miss  Tibbutt  was  sitting  on  the  rustic  seat, 
knitting  some  fine  lace.  The  ball  of  knitting 
cotton  was  in  a  black  satin  bag  on  her  lap. 

Trix  had  arrived  at  Woodleigh  the  previous  day, 
two  days  earlier  than  she  had  been  expected.  A 
telegram  had  preceded  her  appearance.  It  was 
a  lengthy  telegram,  an  explicit  telegram.  It  set 
forth  various  facts  in  a  manner  entirely  character- 
istic of  Trix.  Firstly,  it  announced  her  almost 
immediate  arrival;  secondly,  it  remarked  on  the 
extraordinary  heat  in  London;  and  thirdly  it 
stated  quite  clearly  her  own  overwhelming  and 
instant  desire  for  the  nice,  fresh,  cool,  clean, 
country. 

"Trix  is  coming  to-day,"  the  Duchessa  had 
said  as  she  read  it. 

"How  delightful!"  Miss  Tibbutt  had  replied 
instantly.    And  then,   after  a  moment's  pause, 

II  l6l 


162  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

*' There  will  be  plenty  of  food  because  Father 
Dormer  is  dining  here  to-night. " 

The  Duchessa  had  laughed.  It  was  so  entirely 
like  Tibby  to  think  of  food  the  first  thing. 

"I  know,"  she  had  replied.  And  then  reflect- 
ively, "I  think  it  might  be  desirable  to  telephone 
to  Doctor  Hilary  and  ask  him  to  come  too.  It 
really  is  not  fair  to  ask  Father  Dormer  to  meet 
three  solitary  females. " 

A  second  time  Miss  Tibbutt  had  momentarily 
and  mentally  surveyed  the  contents  of  the  larder, 
and  almost  immediately  had  nodded  her  entire 
approval  of  the  idea.  She  most  thoroughly  en- 
joyed the  mild  excitement  of  a  little  dinner  party. 

"Tibby,  angel,  what's  the  matter  with  Pia?'* 

The  question  fell  rather  like  a  bomb,  though 
quite  a  small  bomb,  into  the  sunshine. 

"Matter    with    Pia,"    echoed    Miss    Tibbutt. 
"What  do  you  think,  my  dear?" 
!    "That,"  said  Trix  wisely,  "is  precisely  what 
I  am  asking  you?" 

Miss  Tibbutt  laid  down  her  knitting. 

"But  do  you  think  anything  is  the  matter?" 
she  questioned  anxiously. 

"I  don't  think,  I  know,"  remarked  Trix  suc- 
cinctly. 

Miss  Tibbutt  took  off  her  spectacles. 

"But  she  is  so  bright,"  she  said. 

Trix  nodded  emphatically. 

"That's  just  it.     She's  too  bright.     Oh,   one 
,  can  overdo  the  merry  light-hearted  r61e,  I  assure 


TRIX  ON  THE  SCENE  163 

you.  And  then,  to  a  new-comer  at  all  events,  the 
cloak  becomes  apparent.  But  haven't  you  the 
smallest  idea?" 

Miss  Tibbutt  shook  her  head. 

"Not  the  least,"  she  announced.  **I  fancied 
one  evening  shortly  after  she  returned  here,  that 
something  was  a  little  wrong.  I  remember  I  asked 
her.  She  talked  about  soap-bubbles  and  cobwebs 
but  said  there  weren't  any  left. " 

"Of  which,"  smiled  Trix.  "Soap-bubbles  or 
cobwebs?" 

"Oh,  cobwebs,"  said  Miss  Tibbutt  earnestly. 
*  *  Or  was  it  both  ?  She  said, — yes,  I  remember  now 
just  what  she  did  say — she  said  that  a  pretty 
bubble  had  burst  and  become  a  cobweb.  And 
when  I  asked  her  if  the  cobweb  were  bothering 
her,  she  said  both  it  and  the  bubble  had  van- 
ished. So,  you  see!"  This  last  on  a  note  of 
triumph. 

*  *  Hmm, ' '  said  Trix  ruminative,  dubious.  *  *  Bub- 
bles have  a  way  of  taking  up  more  space  than 
one  would  imagine,  and  their  bursting  sometimes 
leaves  an  unpleasant  gap.  The  bursting  of  this 
one  has  left  a  gap  in  Pia's  life.  You  haven't, 
by  any  chance,  the  remotest  notion  of  its  colour?" 

"Its  colour?"  queried  Miss  Tibbutt. 

Trix  laughed.  "Nonsense,  Tibby,  angel,  non- 
sense pure  and  simple.  But  all  the  same,  I  wish 
I  knew  for  dead  certain." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Miss  Tibbutt  anxiously,  though 
she  hadn't  the  smallest  notion  what  advantage  a 


164         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

knowledge  of  the  colour  would  be  to  either  one  of 
them. 

Trix  dabbed  the  stump  of  her  cigarette  on  the 
table. 

"Well,  don't  let  her  know  we  think  there's  any- 
thing wrong.  If  you  want  to  remain  wrapped  up 
in  the  light-hearted  cloak,  nothing  is  more  annoy- 
ing than  having  any  one  prying  to  see  what's 
tmdemeath, — unless  it's  the  right  person,  of  course. 
And  we're  not  sure  that  we  are — yet.  We  must 
just  wait  till  she  feels  like  giving  us  a  peep,  if  she 
ever  does." 

A  silence  fell.  Miss  Tibbutt  took  up  her 
knitting  again.  Trix  hummed  a  little  air  from  a 
popular  opera.  Presently  Miss  Tibbutt  sighed. 
Trix  left  off  humming. 

"What's  the  matter,  Tibby?" 

Miss  Tibbut  sighed  more  deeply.  "I'm  afraid 
it's  my  fault,"  she  said. 

"What's  your  fault?"  demanded  Trix. 

"I've  not  noticed  Pia.  I  thought  everything 
was  all  right  after  what  she  said.  I  ought  to 
have  noticed.  I've  been  too  wrapped  up  in  my 
own  affairs.  Perhaps  if  I'd  been  more  sympa- 
thetic I  should  have  found  out  what  was  the 
matter." 

Trix  laughed,  a  happy  amused,  comfortable 
little  laugh. 

"Oh,  Tibby,  you  angel,  that's  so  like  you.  You 
always  want  to  shoulder  the  blame  for  every  speck 
of  wrong-doing  or  depression  that  appears  in  yotu: 


TRIX  ON  THE  SCENE  165 

little  universe.  Women  like  you  always  do.  It's 
an  odd  sort  of  responsible  unselfishness.  That 
doesn't  in  the  very  least  express  to  any  one  else 
what  I  mean,  but  it  does  to  myself.  You  never 
allow  that  any  one  else  has  any  responsibility  when 
things  go  wrong,  and  you  never  take  the  smallest 
share  of  the  responsibility — or  the  praise,  rather — 
when  things  go  right. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  laughed.  In  spite  of  her  queer 
earnestness  over  what  seemed — at  all  events  to 
others — ^very  little  things,  and  her  quite  extra- 
ordinary conscientiousness — some  people  indeed 
might  have  called  it  scruptdosity — she  had  really 
a  keen  sense  of  humoin*.  She  was  always  ready  to 
laugh  at  her  own  earnestness  as  soon  as  she  per- 
ceived it.  She  was  not,  however,  always  ready  to 
abandon  it,  unless  it  were  quite,  quite  obvious 
that  she  had  really  better  do  so.  And  then  she  did 
it  with  a  quick  mental  shake,  and  put  an  odd  little 
mocking  humour  in  its  place. 

"But,  my  dear,  one  generally  is  responsible, 
and  that  just  because  my  universe  is  so  small, 
as  you  justly  pointed  out.  But  I  always  believe 
literally  what  any  one  says.  I  don't  in  the  least 
mean  that  Pia  said  what  was  not  true.  Of  course 
she  thought  she  had  swept  away  the  cobweb  and 
the  bubble,  and  I've  no  doubt  she  did.  But  it  left 
a  gap,  as  you  said.  I  ought  to  have  seen  the  gap 
and  tried  to  fill  it. " 

Trix  shook  her  head. 
_  "You  couldn't,  Tibby,  if  the  bubble  were  the 


I66  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

colour  I  fancy.  Only  the  bubble  itself,  consoli- 
dated, could  do  that. " 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  mean — ?**  said  Miss 
Tibbutt. 

"Just  that,"  nodded  Trix.  "It  was  bound  to 
happen  some  time.  Pia  is  made  to  give  and 
receive  love.  She  was  too  young  when  she  married 
to  know  what  it  really  meant.  And,  well,  think  of 
those  years  of  her  married  life. " 

"I  thought  of  them  for  seven  years,"  said  Miss 
Tibbutt  quietly.  "You  don't  think  I've  for- 
gotten them  now?" 

Trix's  eyes  filled  with  quick  tears. 

"Of  course  you  haven't.  I  didn't  mean  that. 
What  I  do  mean  is  that  I  suppose  she  thought 
she  had  got  the  real  thing  then,  and  all  the  young 
happiness  in  it  was  destroyed  in  a  moment.  Then 
came  those  seven  terrible  years.  For  an  older 
woman  perhaps  there  would  have  been  a  self- 
sacrificing  joy  in  them;  for  Pia,  there  was  just  the 
brave  facing  of  an  obvious  duty.  She  was  splen- 
did, of  course  she  was  splendid,  but  no  one  could 
call  it  joy.  Now,  somehow,  she's  had  a  glimpse 
of  what  real  joy  might  be.  And  it  has  vanished 
again.  I  don't  know  how  I  know,  but  it's  true. 
I  feel  it  in  my  bones. " 

Again  there  was  a  silence.    Then: 

"What  can  we  do? "  asked  Miss  Tibbutt  simply. 

Trix  laughed,  though  her  eyes  were  grave. 
**You,  an^el,  can  pray.  Of  course  I  shall,  too. 
But  I'm  going  to  do  quite  a  lot  of  thinking,  and 


TRIX  ON  THE  SCENE  167 

keeping  my  eyes  open  as  well.  And  now  I  am 
going  right  round  this  perfectly  heavenly  garden 
once  more,  and  then,  I  suppose,  it  will  be  time  to 
dress  for  dinner. " 

Swinging  herself  off  the  table,  she  departed 
waving  her  hand  to  Miss  Tibbutt  before  she  turned 
a  comer  by  a  yew  hedge. 

"Dear  Trix, "  murmured  Miss  Tibbutt. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MOONLIGHT  AND  THEORIES 

The  little  party  of  two  men  and  two  women 
were  assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  Trix  had 
not  yet  put  in  an  appearance.  But,  then,  the 
dinner  gong  had  not  soimded.  Trix  invariably 
saved  her  reputation  for  pimctuality  by  appearing 
on  the  last  stroke. 

Miss  Tibbutt  and  Father  Dormer  were  sitting 
'  on  the  sofa;  Pia  was  in  an  armchair  near  the  open 
window,  and  Doctor  Hilary  was  standing  on  the 
hearthrug.  His  dress  clothes  seemed  to  increase 
his  size,  and  he  did  not  look  perfectly  at  home  in 
them;  or,  perhaps,  it  was  merely  the  fact  that  he 
was  so  seldom  seen  in  them.  Doctor  Hilary  in  a 
shabby  overcoat  or  loose  tweeds,  was  the  usual 
sight. 

Father  Dormer  was  a  tallish  thin  man,  with 
very  aquiline  features,  and  dark  hair  going  grey 
on  his  temples.  At  the  moment  he  and  Miss 
Tibbutt  were  deep  in  a  discussion  on  rose  growing, 
a  favourite  hobby  of  his.  Deeply  engrossed,  they 
were  weighing  the  advantages  of  the  scent  of  the 

1 68 


MOONLIGHT  AND  THEORIES  169 

more  old-fashioned  kinds,  against  the  shape  and 
colour  of  the  newer  varieties,  with  the  solemnity 
of  two  judges. 

"They're  pretty  equally  balanced  in  my  gar- 
den," said  Father  Dormer.  "I  can't  do  without 
the  old-fashioned  ones,  despite  the  beauty  of  the 
newer  sorts.  I've  two  bushes  of  the  red  and  white 
— the  York  and  Lancaster  rose.  I  was  a  Lanca- 
shire lad,  you  know." 

And  then  the  first  soft  notes  of  the  gong  sounded 
from  the  hall,  rising  to  a  full  boom  beneath  the 
footman's  accomplished  stroke. 

There  was  a  sound  of  running  steps  descending 
the  stairs,  and  a  final  jump. 

"Keep  it  going,  Dale,"  said  a  voice  without. 
And  then  Trix  entered  the  room,  slightly  flushed 
by  her  rapid  descent  of  the  stairs,  but  with  an 
assumption  of  leisurely  dignity. 

"I'm  not  late,"  she  announced  with  great 
innocence.     "The  gong  hasn't  stopped." 

Doctor  Hilary,  who  was  facing  the  door,  looked 
at  her.  He  saw  a  small,  elf-like  girl  in  a  very 
shimmery  green  frock.  The  green  enhanced 
her  elf -like  appearance. 

"Deceiver,"  laughed  Pia.  "We  heard  you 
quite,  quite  distinctly. " 

Obviously  caught,  Trix  echoed  the  laugh. 

"Well,  anyhow  I'd  have  been  in  before  the  echo 
stopped, "  she  announced. 

They  went  informally  into  the  dining-room, 
where  the  light  of  shaded  wax  candles  on  the  table 


I70  *        ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

mingled  with  the  departing  daylight,  for  the  cur- 
tains were  still  undrawn. 

"I  like  this  kind  of  light,"  remarked  Trix,  as 
she  seated  herself. 

Trix  almost  always  thought  aloud.  It  meant 
that  conversation  in  her  presence  seldom  flagged, 
since  her  brain  was  rarely  idle;  though  she  could  be 
really  marvellously  silent  when  she  perceived  that 
silence  was  desirable. 

"Do  you  know  this  garden?"  she  said,  address- 
ing herself  to  Doctor  Hilary,  by  whom  she  was 
seated. 

He  assented. 

"Well,  isn't  it  lovely?  That's  what  made  me 
nearly  late, — going  round  it  again.  I've  been 
round  five  times  since  yesterday.  It's  just 
heavenly  after  London.  Roses  versus  petrol,  you 
know. "     She  wrinkled  up  her  nose  as  she  spoke. 

"You  ought  to  see  the  gardens  of  Chorley  Old 
Hall,  Miss  Devereux, "  said  Father  Dormer.  ' '  Not 
that  I  mean  any  invidious  comparison  between 
them  and  this  garden,"  he  added,  with  a  Kttle 
smile  towards  the  Duchessa. 

' '  Choriey  Old  Hall, ' '  remarked  Trix.  ' '  I  used 
to  go  there  when  I  was  a  tiny  child.  There  was  a 
man  lived  there,  who  used  to  terrify  me  out  of  my 
wits,  his  eyes  were  so  black.  But  I  liked  him, 
when  I  got  over  my  first  fright.  What  has  become 
of  him?" 

"He  died  a  short  time  ago,"  said  the  Duchessa 
quietly. 


MOONLIGHT  AND  THEORIES  171 

"Oh,"  said  Trix  regretfully.  Possibly  she  had 
contemplated  a  renewal  of  the  acquaintanceship. 

"He'd  been  an  invalid  for  a  long  time,"  ex- 
plained the  Duchessa.  She  was  a  little,  just  a 
trifle  anxious  as  to  whether  the  conversation  might 
not  prove  embarrassing  for  Doctor  Hilary.  There 
was  a  feeling  in  the  village  that  the  journey,  which 
Doctor  Hilary  had  permitted — some,  indeed,  said 
advocated — ^had  been  entirely  responsible  for  the 
death. 

But  Doctor  Hilary  was  eating  his  dinner,  ap- 
parently utterly  and  completely  at  his  ease. 

"Anyhow  the  gardens  aren't  being  neglected," 
said  Father  Dormer.  "They've  got  a  new  under- 
gardener  there  who  is  proving  rather  a  marvel  in 
his  line.  In  fact  Golding  confesses  that  he'll  have 
to  look  out  for  his  own  laurels.  He's  a  nice  look- 
ing fellow,  this  new  man,  and  a  cut  above  the 
ordinary  type,  I  should  say.  I  used  to  see  him  in 
church  after  Mass  on  Sundays  at  one  time.  But 
he  has  given  up  coming  lately. " 

"Really,"  said  the  Duchessa. 

Trix  looked  up  quickly,  surprised  at  the  in- 
tonation of  her  voice. 

"Oh,  he  isn't  a  Catholic,"  smiled  Father 
Dormer.  "Perhaps  curiosity  brought  him  in  the 
beginning,  and  now  it  has  worn  off." 

Trix  was  still  looking  at  the  Duchessa.  She 
couldn't  make  out  the  odd  intonation  of  her  voice. 
It  had  been  indifferent  enough  to  be  almost  rude. 
But,  if  it  were  intended  for  a  snub.  Father  Dormer 


172  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

had  evidently  not  taken  it  as  such.  Yet  there  was 
a  Httle  pause  on  the  conclusion  of  his  remark,  al- 
most as  if  Doctor  Hilary  and  Miss  Tibbutt  had  had 
the  same  idea  as  herself.  At  least,  that  was  what 
Trix  felt  the  little  pause  to  mean.  And  then  she 
was  suddenly  annoyed  with  herself  for  having  felt 
it.     Of  course  it  was  quite  absurd. 

She  looked  down  at  her  plate  of  clear  soup. 
It  had  letters  of  a  white  edible  substance  floating 
in  it. 

"I've  got  an  A  and  two  S's  in  my  soup,"  she 
remarked  pathetically.  "I  don't  think  it  is  quite 
tactful  of  the  cook. " 

There  was  an  instant  lowering  of  eyes  towards 
soup  plates,  an  announcing  of  the  various  letters 
seen  therein.  Trix  had  an  application  for  each, 
making  the  letters  stand  as  the  initials  for  words. 

"C.  S.,"  said  Miss  Tibbutt  presently,  entering 
into  the  spirit  of  the  game. 

"Sure  there  isn't  a  T?"  asked  Trix. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Tibbutt  peering  closer,  "I 
mean  there  isn't  one. " 

"Well  then,  it  can't  be  Catholic  Truth  Society. 
My  imagination  has  given  out.  I  can  only 
think  of  Christian  Science.  I  don't  think  it's 
quite  right  of  you,  Tibby  dear. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  blinked  good-humotu-edly. 

"Aren't  they  the  people  who  think  that  the 
Bible  dropped  down  straight  from  heaven  in  a 
shiny  black  cover  with  S.  P.  G.  printed  on  it?"  she 
asked. 


MOONLIGHT  AND  THEORIES  173 

Trix  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  declared  solemnly,  "they're  Bible 
Christians.  The  Christian  Science  people  are  the 
ones  who  think  we  haven't  got  any  bodies. " 

"No  bodies!"  ejaculated  Miss  Tibbutt. 

"Well,"  said  Trix,  "anyhow  they  think  bodies 
are  a  false — false  something  or  other. " 

"False  claim,"  suggested  Father  Dormer. 

"That's  it,"  cried  Trix,  immensely  delighted. 
"How  clever  of  you  to  have  thought  of  it.  Only 
I'm  not  sure  if  it's  the  bodies  are  a  false  claim,  or 
the  aches  attached  to  the  bodies.  Perhaps  it's 
both." 

"I  thought  that  was  the  New  Thought  Idea," 
said  Pia. 

Trix  shook  her  head.  "Oh  no,  the  New 
Thought  people  think  a  lot  about  one's  body. 
They  give  us  lots  of  bodies." 

"Really?"  queried  Doctor  Hilary  doubtfully. 

*  *  Oh  yes, ' '  responded  Trix.  * '  I  once  went  to  one 
of  their  lectures. " 

"My  dear  Trix!"  ejaculated  Miss  Tibbutt 
flustered. 

"It  was  quite  an  accident,"  said  Trix  reassur- 
ingly. "A  friend  of  mine,  Sybil  Martin,  was 
coming  up  to  town  and  wanted  me  to  meet  her. 
She  suggested  I  should  meet  her  at  Paddington, 
and  then  go  to  a  lecture  on  psychometry  with  her, 
and  tea  afterwards.  I  hadn't  the  faintest  notion 
what  psychometry  was,  but  I  supposed  it  might 
be  first  cousin  to  trigonometry,  and  quite  as  dull. 


174  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

But  she  wanted  me,  so  I  went.  It  was  funny," 
gurgled  Trix. 

Doctor  Hilary  was  watching  her.  , 

"You'd  better  disburden  your  mind,"  he  said. 

Trix  crumbled  her  bread,  still  smiling  at  the 
recollection. 

"Well,  the  lectin-e  was  held  in  a  biggish  room, 
and  there  were  a  lot  of  odd  people  present.  But 
the  oddest  of  all  was  the  lecturer.  She  wore  a  kind 
of  purple  velvet  tea-gown,  though  it  was  only  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  She  talked  for  a  long 
time  about  vibrations,  and  things  that  bored  me 
awfully,  and  people  kept  interrupting  with  ques- 
tions. One  man  interrupted  particularly  often.  He 
kept  saying,  'Excuse  me,  but  am  I  right  in  think- 
ing— '  And  then  he  would  give  a  Httle  lecture  on 
his  own  account,  and  look  around  for  the  approval 
of  the  audience.  I  should  have  flung  things  at  him 
if  I  had  been  the  purple  velvet  lady.  It  was  so 
obvious  that  he  was  not  desiring  her  information, 
but  merely  wishful  to  air  his  own.  There  was  a 
text  on  the  wall  which  said,  'We  talk  abundance 
here, '  and  when  I  pointed  out  to  Sybil  how  true  it 
was,  she  wasn't  a  bit  pleased,  and  said  it  didn't 
mean  what  I  thought  in  the  least.  But  she  wouldn't 
explain  what  it  did  mean.  After  the  lecture,  the 
purple  velvet  lady  held  things — jewelry  chiefly — 
that  people  in  the  audience  sent  up  to  her,  and 
described  their  owners,  and  where  they'd  got  the 
things  from.  There  was  quite  a  lot  of  family 
history,  and  people's  characteristics  and  virtues 


MOONLIGHT  AND  THEORIES  173 

and  failings,  and  very,  very  private  things  made 
public,  but  no  one  seemed  to  mind." 

"That's  the  odd  thing  about  those  people, "  said 
Doctor  Hilary  thoughtfully.  "Disclosing  their 
innermost  thoughts,  feelings,  and  so-called  experi- 
ences, seems  an  absolute  mania  with  them.  And 
the  more  public  the  disclosure  the  better  they  are 
pleased.     But  go  on,  Miss  Devereux. " 

"Well,"  said  Trix,  "at  last  she  began  describing 
a  sort  of  Cleopatra  lady,  and — and  rather  vivid 
love  scenes,  and — and  things  like  that.  When 
she'd  ended,  the  bracelet  turned  out  to  belong  to  a 
little  dowdy  woman  looking  like  a  meek  mouse. 
I  thought  the  purple  velvet  lady  would  have  been 
really  upset  and  mortified  at  her  mistake.  But 
she  wasn't  in  the  least.  She  just  smiled  sweetly, 
and  returned  the  bracelet  to  the  owner,  and  said 
that  the  dowdy  little  woman  had  been  Cleopatra 
in  a  former  incarnation.  Of  course  when  she 
began  on  that  tack,  I  saw  the  kind  of  lecture  I'd 
really  let  myvSelf  in  for,  and  I  knew  I'd  no  business 
to  be  in  the  place  at  all,  so  I  made  Sybil  take  me 
away.  It  was  nearly  the  end,  and  she  didn't  mind, 
because  she  missed  the  silver  collection.  But  she 
talked  to  me  about  it  the  whole  of  tea-time,  and 
she  really  believed  it  all, "  sighed  Trix  pathetically. 

Miss  Tibbutt  looked  quite  shocked. 

"Oh,  but,  my  dear,  she  couldn't  really." 

"She  did,"  nodded  Trix. 

Miss  Tibbutt  appealed  helplessly  to  Father 
Dormer. 


176  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

"Why  do  people  believe  such  extraordinary 
things?"  she  demanded  almost  wrathfully. 

Father  Dormer  laughed.  "That's  a  question  I 
cannot  pretend  to  answer.  But  I  suppose  that  if 
people  reject  the  truth,  and  yet  want  to  believe 
something  beyond  mere  physical  facts,  they  can 
invent  anything,  that  is  if  they  happen  to  be 
endowed  with  sufficient  imagination." 

"Then  the  devil  must  help  them  invent,"  said 
Miss  Tibbutt  with  exceeding  firmness. 

After  dinner  they  had  coffee  in  the  garden.  A 
big  moon  was  coming  up  in  the  dusk  behind  the 
trees,  its  Hght  throwing  the  shadows  dark  and  soft 
on  the  grass. 

"It's  so  astonishingly  silent  after  London,'* 
said  Trix,  gazing  at  the  blue-grey  velvet  of  the 
sky. 

She  looked  more  than  ever  elfin-like,  with  the 
moonlight  falling  on  her  fair  hair  and  pointed  oval 
face,  and  the  shimmering  green  of  her  dress. 

"I  wonder  why  we  ever  go  to  bed  on  moonlight 
nights, "  she  pursued.  "Brilliant  sunshine  always 
tempts  us  to  do  something — a  long  walk,  a  drive, 
or  boating  on  a  river.  Over  and  over  again  we 
say,  'Now,  the  very  next  fine  day  we'll  do — so  and 
so. '  But  no  one  ever  dreams  of  saying,  'Now,  the 
next  moonlight  night  we'll  have  a  picnic*  I 
wonder  why  not?" 

"Because,"  said  Doctor  Hilary  smiling,  and 
watching  her,  "the  old  and  staid  folk  have  no  de- 
sire to  lose  their  sleep,  and — well,  the  conventions 


MOONLIGHT  AND  THEORIES  177 

are  apt  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  young  and 
romantic." 

"Conventions,"  sighed  Trix,  "are  the  bane  of 
one's  existence.  They  hamper  all  one's  most 
cherished  desires  until  one  is  of  an  age  when  the 
desires  become  non-existent.  My  aunt  Lilla  is 
always  saying  to  me,  'When  you're  a  much  older 
woman,  dearest. '  And  I  reply,  'But,  Aunt  Lilla, 
now  is  the  moment.'  I  know,  by  experience,  later 
is  no  good.  When  I  was  a  tiny  child  my  greatest 
desire  was  to  play  wdth  all  the  grubbiest  children 
in  the  parks.  Of  course  I  was  dragged  past  them 
by  a  haughty  and  righteous  niu-se.  I  can  talk  to 
them  now  if  I  want  to,  and  even  wheel  their  per- 
ambulators. But  it  would  have  been  so  infinitely 
nicer  to  wheel  a  very  dirty  baby  in  a  very  ram- 
shackle perambulator  when  I  was  eight.  Con- 
ventions are  responsible  for  an  enormous  lot  of 
lost  opportunities." 

"Mightn't  they  be  well  lost?"  suggested  Father 
Dormer. 

Trix  looked  across  at  him. 

"Serious  or  nonsense?"  she  demanded. 

"Whichever  you  like,"  he  repHed,  a  little 
twinkle  in  his  eyes.- 

"Oh,  serious, "  interpolated  Miss  Tibbutt. 

Trix  leant  a  little  forward,  resting  her  chin 
on  her  hands. 

"Well,  seriously  then,  conventions — ^those  that 
are  merely  conventions  for  their  own  sake, — are 
detestable,  and  responsible  for  an  enormous  lot  of 


178  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

unhappiness.  'My  dear  (mimicked  Trix),  you  can 
be  quite  polite  to  so  and  so,  but  I  cannot  have  you 
becoming  friendly  with  them,  you  know  they  are 
not  quite.'  I've  heard  that  said  over  and  over 
again.  It's  hateful.  I'm  not  a  socialist,  not  one 
little  bit,  but  I  do  think  if  you  like  a  person  you 
ought  to  be  able  to  be  friends,  even  if  you  happen 
to  be  a  Duchess  and  he's  a  chimney-sweep.  The 
motto  of  the  present-day  worid  is,  'What  will 
people  think  ?  *  People ! ' '  snorted  Trix  wrathf ully , 
warming  to  her  theme, '  *  what  people  ?  And  is  their 
opinion  worth  twopence  half -penny?  Fancy  them 
associating  with  St.  Peter  if  he  appeared  now 
among  them  as  he  used  to  be,  with  only  his  good- 
ness and  his  character  and  his  fisherman's  clothes, 
instead  of  his  halo  and  his  keys,  as  they  see  him  in 
the  churches. " 

The  two  men  laughed.  Miss  Tibbutt  made  a 
little  murmur  of  something  like  query.  The 
Duchessa's  face  looked  rather  white,  but  perhaps 
it  was  only  the  effect  of  the  moonlight. 

"But,  Miss  Devereux, "  said  Doctor  Hilary, 
**even  now  the  world — ^people,  as  you  call  them, 
are  quite  ready  to  recognize  genius  despite  the  fact 
that  it  may  have  risen  from  the  slimis. " 

"Yes,"  contended  Trix  eagerly,  "but  it's  not 
the  person  they  recognize  really,  it's  merely  their 
adjunct." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Miss  Tibbutt. 
Father  Dormer  smiled  comprehendingly. 

"I  mean, "  said  Trix  slowly,  "they  recognize  the 


MOONLIGHT  AND  THEORIES  179 

thing  that  makes  the  show,  and  the  person  because 
of  that  thing,  not  for  the  person's  own  self.  Let 
me  try  and  explain  better.  A  man,  born  in  the 
slums,  has  a  marvellous  voice.  He  becomes  a 
noted  singer.  He's  received  everywhere  and 
f^ted.  But  it's  really  his  voice  that  is  f6ted,  be- 
cause it  is  the  fashion  to  f^te  it.  Let  him  lose  his 
voice,  and  he  drops  out  of  existence.  People 
don't  recognize  him  himself,  the  self  which  gave 
expression  to  the  voice,  and  which  still  w,  even 
after  the  voice  is  dumb. " 

Father  Dormer  nodded. 

"Well,"  went  on  Trix,  "I  maintain  that  that 
man  is  every  bit  as  well  worth  knowing  afterwards, 
— after  he  has  lost  his  voice.  And  even  if  he'd 
never  been  able  to  give  expression  to  himself  by 
singing,  he  might  have  been  just  as  well  worth 
knowing.  But  the  world  never  looks  for  inside 
things,  but  only  for  external  things  that  make 
a  show.  So  if  Mrs.  B.  hasn't  an  atom  of  anything 
congenial  to  me  in  her  composition,  but  has 
a  magnificent  house  and  heaps  of  money,  it's 
quite  right  and  fitting  I  should  know  her,  so 
people  would  say,  and  encourage  me  to  do  so. 
But  it's  against  all  the  conventions  that  I  should 
be  friendly  with  little  Miss  F.  who  lives  over  the 
tobacconist's  at  the  comer  of  such  and  such  a 
street,  though  she  is  thoroughly  congenial  to  me, 
and  I  love  her  plucky  and  cheery  outlook  on  life.  '* 
She  stopped. 
^'^."Go  on,"  encouraged  Doctor  Hilary. 


i8o  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

**Well, "  laughed  Trix,  "take  a  more  extreme 
case.  Sir  A.  C.  is — weH,  not  a  bad  man,  but  not 
the  least  the  kind  of  man  I  care  about,  but  he  may 
take  me  in  to  dinner,  and,  on  the  strength  of  that 
brief  acquaintance,  to  a  theatre  if  he  wants,  pro- 
vided I  have  some  other  woman  with  me  as  a  sort 
of  chaperon,  and  he  can  talk  to  me  by  the  hour, 
and  that  all  on  account  of  his  money  and  title. 
Mr.  Z.  is  a  really  white  man,  but  he's  a  'come- 
down,'  through  no  fatdt  of  his  own,  and  a  bus- 
conductor.  I  happen  to  have  spoken  to  him  once 
or  twice;  and  Hke  him.  But  I  mightn't  even  walk 
for  half  an  hour  with  him  in  the  park,  if  I'd  fifty 
authorized  chaperons  attending  on  me.  That's 
what  I  mean  about  conventions  that  are  conven- 
tions for  their  own  sake."     She  stopped  again. 

"And  what  do  you  suggest  as  a  remedy? "  asked 
Father  Dormer,  smiling. 

"There  isn't  one,"  sighed  Trix.  "At  least 
not  one  you  can  apply  universally.  Everybody 
must  just  apply  it  for  themselves,  and  not  exactly 
by  defying  conventions,  but  by  treating  them  as 
simply  non-existent." 

The  Duchessa  made  a  little  movement  in  the 
moonlight. 

"Which,"  she  said  quietly,  "comes  to  exactly 
the  same  thing  as  defying  them,  and  it  won't 
work. " 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Trix. 

"You'd  find  yourself  curiously  lonely  after  a 
time  if  you  did." 


MOONLIGHT  AND  THEORIES  i8i 

"You  mean  my  friends — ^no,  my  acquaintances 
■ — would  desert  me?" 

"Probably." 

"Well,  I'd  have  the  one  I'd  chanced  it  all  for. " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Duchessa  slowly  and  deUber- 
ately,  "but  you'd  have  to  be  very  sure,  not  only 
that  the  friend  was  worth  it,  but  that  you  were 
worth  it  to  the  friend. " 

There  was  rather  a  blank  silence.  Trix  gave  a 
little  gasp.  It  was  not  so  much  the  words  that 
hurt,  as  the  tone  in  which  they  had  been  spoken. 
It  was  a  repetition  of  the  little  scene  at  dinner, 
but  this  time  intensified.  And  it  was  so  utterly, 
so  entirely  unlike  Pia.  Trix  felt  miserably 
squashed.  She  had  been  talking  a  good  deal  too, 
perhaps,  indeed,  rather  fooHshly,  that  was  the 
worst  of  it.  No  doubt  she  had  made  rather  an 
idiot  of  herself.  She  swallowed  a  Httle  lump  in  her 
throat.  Well,  anyhow  that  inflection  in  Pia's 
tone  must  be  covered  at  once.  That  was  the 
first,  indeed  the  only,  consideration. 

"I  never  thought  of  all  those  contingencies," 
she  laughed.  There  was  the  faintest  suspicion 
of  a  quiver  in  her  voice.  "Let's  talk  about  the 
moonHght.  But  it  was  the  moonHght  began  it 
all."' 

Two  hours  later  the  garden  lay  deserted  in  the 
same  moonHght. 

A  woman  was  sitting  by  an  open  window, 
looking  out  into  the  garden.     She  had  been  sitting 


i82  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

there   quite   a   long   time.    Suddenly   her   eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"Oh,  Trix,  Trix,'*  she  said  half  aloud,  "if  only 
it  would  work.  But  it  won't.  And  it  was  the 
moonlight  that  began  it  all. " 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ON  THE  MOORLAND  I 

Trix  was  walking  over  the  moorland.  The 
Duchessa  and  Miss  Tibbutt  had  departed  to  what 
promised  to  be  an  exceedingly  dtill  garden  party- 
some  five  miles  distant.  It  had  been  decreed  that 
it  was  entirely  unnecessary  to  inflict  the  same  pro- 
bable dulness  on  Trix,  therefore  she  had  been 
left  to  freedom  and  her  own  devices  for  the  after- 
noon. 

Trix  was  playing  the  game  of  "I  remember." 
It  can  be  a  quite  extraordinarily  fascinating  game, 
or  an  exceedingly  painful  one.  Trix  was  finding 
it  extraordinarily  fascinating.  It  was  so  gor- 
geously delightful  to -find  that  nothing  had  shrunk, 
nothing  lessened  in  beauty  or  mystery.  A  larch 
copse  was  every  bit  as  much  a  haunt  of  the  Little 
People  as  formerly;  the  moss  every  bit  as  much  a 
cool  green  carpet  for  their  tripping  feet.  A  few 
belated  foxglove  stems  added  to  the  old-time 
enchantment  of  the  place.  Even  a  little  stream 
rippling  through  the  wood,  was  a  veritable  stream, 
and  not  merely  a  watery  ditch,  as  it  might  quite 

183 


i84  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

well  have  proved.  Then  there  was  the  view  from 
the  gate,  through  a  frame  of  beech  trees  out  to- 
wards the  sea.  It  was  still  as  entrancing  an  ocean, 
sun-flecked  and  radiant.  There  were  still  as 
infinite  possibiHties  in  the  unknown  Beyond, 
could  one  have  chartered  a  white-winged  boat, 
and  have  sailed  to  where  land  and  water  meet. 
There  was  a  pond,  too,  surrounded  by  blackberry 
bushes  and  great  spear-like  rushes,  perhaps  not 
quite  the  enormous  lake  of  one's  childhood,  but  a 
reasonably  large  pond  enough,  and  there  were 
still  the  blackberry  bushes  and  the  spear-like 
rushes.  And,  finally,  there  was  the  moorland, 
glowing  with  more  radiant  crimson  lakes  and 
madders  than  the  most  wonderful  paint  box 
ever  held,  and  stretching  up  and  down,  and  up 
again,  till  it  melted  in  far  away  purples  and 
lavenders. 

Trix's  heart  sang  in  accord  with  the  laughing 
sun-kissed  earth  around  her.  It  was  all  so  gor- 
geous, so  free  and  untrammelled.  She  la}^  upon 
the  hot  springy  heather,  and  crushed  the  tiny  pur- 
ple flowers  of  the  wild  thyme  between  her  fingers, 
raising  the  bruised  petals  to  her  face  to  drink 
in  their  strong  sweet  scent. 

From  far  off  she  could  hear  the  tinkle  of  a 
goat  beU,  and  the  occasional  short  bark  of  a  sheep 
dog.  All  else  was  silence,  save  for  the  humming  of 
the  bees  above  the  heather.  Tiny  insects  floated 
in  the  still  air,  looking  like  specks  of  thistle-down  as 
the  sun  caught  and  silvered  their  minute  wings. 


ON  THE  MOORLAND  185 

Little  blue  butterflies  flitted  hither  and  thither 
like  radiant  animated  flowers. 

For  a  long  time  Trix  sat  very  still,  body  and 
soul  bathed  in  the  beauty  around  her.  At  last  she 
got  to  her  feet,  and  made  her  way  across  the 
heather,  ignoring  the  small  beaten  tracks  despite 
the  prickliness  of  her  chosen  route. 

After  some  half-hour's  walking  she  came  to  a 
stone  wall  bordering  a  hilly  field,  a  low  wall,  a 
battered  wall,  where  tiny  ferns  grew  in  the  crevices, 
and  the  stones  themselves  were  patched  with 
orange-coloured  lichen. 

Trix  climbed  the  wall,  and  walked  across  the 
soft  grass.  A  good  way  to  the  right  was  a  fence, 
and  beyond  the  fence  a  wood.  Trix  made  her 
way  slowly  towards  it.  Thistles  grew  among  the 
grass, — carding  thistles,  and  thistles  with  small 
drooping  heads.  She  looked  at  them  idly  as  she 
walked.  Suddenly  a  slight  sound  behind  her  made 
her  turn,  and  with  the  tiuming  her  heart  leapt  to 
her  throat. 

From  over  the  brow  of  the  hilly  field  behind 
her,  quite  a  number  of  cattle  were  coming  at  a 
fair  pace  towards  her. 

Now  Trix  hated  cows  in  any  shape  or  form, 
and  these  were  the  unpleasant  white-faced,  brown 
cattle,  whose  very  appearance  is  against  them. 
They  were  moving  quickly  too,  quite  alarmingly 
quickly. 

Trix  cast  one  terrified  and  pathetic  glance  over 
her  shoulder.     The  glance  was  all-sufiicient.   She 


i86  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

ran, — ran  straight  for  the  wood,  the  cattle  after 
her.  Doubtless  curiosity,  mere  enquiry  maybe, 
prompted  their  pursuit.  Trix  concerned  herself  not 
at  all  with  the  motive,  the  fact  was  all-sufficient. 
Fear  lent  wings  to  her  feet,  and  with  the  horned 
and  horrid  beasts  still  some  ten  yards  behind  her, 
she  precipitated  herself  across  the  fence  to  fall  in 
an  undignified  but  wholly  relieved  heap  among  a 
mass  of  bracken  and  whortleberry  bushes.  The 
briefest  of  moments  saw  her  once  more  on  her 
feet,  struggling,  fighting  her  way  through  shoulder- 
high  bracken.  Five  minutes  brought  her  to  an 
open  space  beyond.  TrembHng,  breathless,  and 
most  suspiciously  near  tears,  she  sank  upon  the 
ground. 

"The  beasts!"  ejaculated  Trix  opprobriously, 
and  not  as  the  mere  statement  of  an  obvious 
fact.  She  took  off  her  hat,  which  flight  had  flung 
to  a  somewhat  rakish  angle,  and  blinked  vigor- 
ously towards  the  trees.    She  was  not  going  to  cry. 

Presently  fright  gave  place  to  interest.  She 
gazed  around,  curious,  speculative.  It  was  an 
unusual  wood,  a  strange  wood,  a  wood  of  holly 
trees,  with  a  scattered  sprinkHng  of  beech  trees. 
The  grey  twisted  trunks  of  the  hollies  gleamed 
among  the  dark  foliage,  giving  an  eerie  and  almost 
imcanny  atmosphere  to  the  place.  It  was  extra- 
ordinarily silent,  too;  and  infinitely  lonelier  than 
the  deserted  moorland.  It  gave  Trix  an  odd 
feeling  of  unpleasant  mystery.  Yet  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  face  the  my^ery,  to  see  if  she 


ON  THE  MOORLAND  187 

could  not  find  some  way  out  further  adown  the 
wood.  Not  for  untold  gold  would  she  again  have 
faced  those  homed  beasts  behind  her. 

A  tiny  narrow  path  led  downhill  from  the 
cleared  space.  Trix  set  off  down  it,  swinging  her 
hat  airily  by  the  brim  the  while.  Presently  the 
sense  of  uncanniness  abated  somewhat;  the  elfin 
in  her  went  out  to  meet  the  weirdness  of  the  wood. 

Now  and  again  she  stopped  to  pick  and  eat 
whortleberries  from  the  massed  bushes  beneath  the 
trees.  She  did  not  particularly  like  them,  truly; 
nevertheless  she  was  still  young  enough  to  pick  and 
eat  what  nature  had  provided  for  picking  and  eat- 
ing, and  that  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  being  able 
to  do  so.  Also,  at  this  jimcture  the  action  brought 
confidence  in  its  train. 

Presently,  through  the  trees  facing  her,  she 
saw  a  wall,  a  high  wall,  a  brick  wall,  and  quite 
evidently  bordering  civilization. 

"It  can't  go  on  for  ever,"   considered  Trix. 
*' It  must  come  to  an  end  some  time,  either  right- 
or  left.     And  I'm  not  going  back."     This  last 
exceedingly  firmly. 

She  went  forward,  scrutinizing,  anxious.  And 
then, — ^joyful  and  welcome  sight ! — a  door,  an  open 
door  came  into  view.  A  mound  of  half -carted  leaf 
mould  just  without  showed,  to  any  one  endowed 
with  even  the  meanest  powers  of  deduction,  that 
someone — some  man,  probably — was  busy  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

Trix  made   hastily   for   the   door.    The  next 


i88  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

moment  she  was  through  it,  to  find  herself  face  to 
face  with  a  man  and  a  wheelbarrow.  Trix  came 
to  a  standstill,  a  standstill  at  once  sudden  and 
unpremeditated.  The  man  dropped  the  wheel- 
barrow. They  stared  blankly  at  each  other. 
And  Trix  was  far  too  flustered  to  realize  that 
his  stare  was  infinitely  more  amazed  than  her  own. 

"You  can't  come  through  this  way,"  said  the 
man,  decisive  though  bewildered.  His  orders  re- 
garding the  non-entrance  of  strangers  had  been 
of  the  emphatic  kind. 

Trix's  brain  worked  rapidly.  The  route  before 
her  must  lead  to  safety,  and  nothing,  no  power 
on  earth,  would  take  her  back  through  the  field 
atop  the  wood.  She  was  genuinely,  quite  genu- 
inely too  frightened.  This  is  by  way  of  excuse, 
since  here  a  regrettable  fact  must  be  recorded. 
Trix  gave  vent  to  a  sound  closely  resembling 
a  sneeze.     It  was  followed  by  one  brief  sentence. 

"There's  someone  at  the  gate,"  was  what  the 
man  heard. 

Again  amazement  was  written  on  his  face.  He 
turned  towards  the  gate.     Trix  fled  past  him. 

"I  couldn't  go  back,"  she  insisted  to  herself, 
as  she  vanished  round  the  corner  of  a  big  green- 
house. "And  I  did  say  'isn't  there'  even  if  it  was 
mixed  up  with  a  sneeze.  And  wherever  have  I 
seen  that  man's  face  before?" 

She  whisked  round  another  corner  of  the  green- 
house, attempting  no  answer  to  her  query  at  the 
moment,  ran  down  a  long  cinder  path  bordered 


ON  THE  MOORLAND  189 

by  cabbages  and  gooseberry  bushes,  and  bolted 
through  another  door  in  another  wall.  And  here 
Trix  found  herself  in  an  orchard,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  was  a  yew  hedge  wherein  she  espied  a  wicket 
gate.  She  made  rapid  way  towards  it.  And  now 
she  saw  a  big  grey  house  facing  her.  There  was  no 
mistaking  it.  Childhood's  memories  rushed  upon 
her.     It  was  Chorley  Old  Hall. 

Trix  came  through  the  wicket  gate,  and  out 
upon  a  lawn,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  a  great 
marble  basin  full  of  crystal  water,  from  which  rose 
a  little  silver  fountain.  Before  her  was  the  big 
grey  house,  melancholy,  deserted-looking.  The 
blinds  were  drawn  down  in  most  of  the  windows. 
It  had  the  appearance  of  a  house  in  which  death 
was  present. 

And  then  a  spirit  of  curiosity  fell  upon  her,  a 
sudden  strong  desire  to  see  within  the  house,  to  go 
once  more  into  the  rooms  where  she  had  stood  in 
the  old  days,  a  small  and  somewhat  frightened 
child. 

There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight.  Probably  the 
man  with  the  wheelbarrow  had  not  thought  it 
worth  while  to  pursue  her.  The  garden  appeared 
as  deserted  as  the  house.  Trix  tip-toed  cautiously 
towards  it.  She  looked  like  a  kitten  or  a  canary 
approaching  a  dead  elephant. 

To  her  left  was  a  door.  Quite  probably  it  was 
locked;  but  then,  by  the  favour  of  fortune,  it 
might  not  be.  Of  course  she  ran  a  risk,  a  consider- 
able risk  of  meeting  some  caretaker  or  other,  and 


I90         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

her  presence  would  not  be  particularly  easy  to 
explain.  Curiosity  and  prudence  wavered  mo- 
mentarily in  the  balance.  Curiosity  turned  the 
scale.  She  tried  the  door.  Vastly  to  her  delight  it 
yielded  at  her  push.  She  slipped  inside  the  house, 
closing  it  softly  behind  her. 

She  found  herself  in  a  long  carpeted  passage, 
sporting  prints  adorning  the  walls.  She  tiptoed 
down  it,  her  step  making  no  smallest  sound  on  the 
soft  carpet.  The  end  of  the  passage  brought  her 
into  a  big  square  hall.  To  her  right  were  wide 
deep  stairs;  opposite  them  was  a  door,  in  all 
probability  the  front  door;  to  her  left  was  another 
door. 

Trix  recalled  the  past,  rapidly,  and  in  detail. 
The  door  to  the  left  must  lead  to  the  library, — 
that  is,  if  her  memory  did  not  play  her  false.  She 
remembered  the  big  room,  the  book-cases  reaching 
from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  the  man  with  the  black 
eyes,  who  had  terrified  her.  Something,  some 
fleeting  shadow,  of  her  old  childish  fear  was  upon 
her  now,  as  she  turned  the  door  handle.  The  door 
yielded  easily.     She  pushed  it  wide  open. 

The  room  was  shadowed,  gloomy  almost.  The 
heavy  curtains  were  drawn  back  from  the  win- 
dows, but  other  curtains  of  some  thinnish  green 
material  hung  before  them,  curtains  which  effectu- 
ally blotted  out  any  view  from  the  window,  or  view 
into  the  room  from  without.  Before  her  were  the 
old  remembered  book-cases,  filled  with  dark,  rather 
fusty  books. 


ON  THE  MOORLAND  191 

Trix  pushed  the  door  to  behind  her,  and  ttimed, 
nonchalantly,  to  look  around  the  room.  As  she 
looked  her  heart  jumped,  leapt,  and  then  stood 
still. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AN  OLD  MAN  IN  A  LIBRARY 

A  WHITE-HAIRED  man  was  watching  her.  He 
was  sitting  in  a  big  oak  chair,  his  hands  resting  on 
the  arms. 

"  Oh ! "  ejaculated  Trix.  And  further  expression 
failed  her. 

"Please  don't  let  me  disturb  you,"  came  a 
suave,  coiirteous  old  voice.  "You  were  looking 
for  something  perhaps?" 

"I  only  wanted  to  see  the  library,"  stuttered 
Trix,  flabbergasted,  dismayed. 

"Well,  this  is  the  library.  May  I  ask  how  you 
foimd  your  way  in?" 

"Through  a  door,"  responded  Trix,  voicing  the 
obvious. 

"Ah!  I  did  not  know  visitors  were  being  ad- 
mitted to  the  house?"  This  on  a  note  of  inter- 
rogation, flavoiu-ed  with  the  faintest  hint  of  irony, 
though  the  courtesy  was  still  not  lacking. 

Trix  coloured. 

"I  wasn't  admitted,"  she  owned.  "I  just 
came." 

192 


AN  OLD  MAN  IN  A  LIBRARY         193 

**Ah,  I  see,"  said  the  white-haired  man  still 
courteously.  "You  perhaps  were  not  aware  that 
your  presence  might  be  an — er,  an  intrusion. " 

Again  Trix  coloured. 

"A  man  did  tell  me  I  couldn't  come  through  this 
way, "  she  confessed. 

"Yet  he  allowed  you  to  do  so?"  There  was  a 
queer  note  beneath  the  courtesy. 

Trix's  ear,  catching  the  note,  found  it  almost 
repellant. 

"It  wasn't  his  fault,"  she  declared.  "I  came. 
I  said,  'Isn't  there  someone  at  the  gate?*  And 
while  he  turned  to  look,  I  ran.  At  least, — "  a 
gleam  of  laughter  sprang  to  her  eyes — "I  sneezed 
first,  so  it  soimded  like  '  There's  somebody  at  the 
gate.*  So  he  thought  there  was  really.  It — it 
was  rather  mean  of  me. " 

"What  you  might  call  an  acted  lie,"  suggested 
the  man. 

Trix  looked  conscience-stricken,  contrite. 

"I  suppose  it  was,"  she  admitted  in  a  very 
small  voice.  "But  it  was  the  cows.  Only  I  think 
they  were  bulls.  I  am  so  frightened  of  cows.  I 
couldn't  go  back.  And  he  wasn't  going  to  let 
me  through.  It  wasn't  his  fault  a  bit,  it  wasn't 
really.  I  know  I  told  a — a  kind  of  He.**  She 
sighed  heavily. 

"You  did,"  said  the  man. 

Again  Trix  sighed. 

"I'd  never  make  a  martyr,  would  I?  Only*' — 
a  degree  more  hopefully — "A  sneeze  isn't  quite 
13 


194         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

like  denying  real  things,  things  that  matter,  is  it?" 
This  last  was  spoken  distinctly  appealingly. 

"I'm  not  a  theologian,  *'  said  the  man  dryly. 

Trix  looked  at  him.  A  sudden  light  of  illumina- 
tion passed  over  her  face,  giving  place  to  absolute 
amazement. 

"Aren't  you  Mr.  Danver?"  she  ejaculated. 

"I  never  heard  of  his  being  a  theologian,"  was 
the  retort. 

"But  Mr.  Danver  Is  dead!"  gasped  Trix. 

"Is  he?" 

"Well,"  said  Trix  dazed,  bewildered,  "he 
evidently  isn't.  But  why  on  earth  did  you — "  she 
broke  off. 

"Did  I  what?"  he  demanded  with  a  queer 
smile. 

"Say  you  were  dead?"  asked  Trix. 

"Dead  men,  my  dear  young  lady,  tell  no  tales, 
nor  have  I  ever  heard  of  a  living  one  proclaiming 
his  own  demise. " 

Trix  laughed  involuntarily. 

"Anyhow  you've  let  other  people  say  you  are,  '* 
she  retorted. 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Why  did  you  let  them?"  asked  Trix. 

Again  the  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  have  no  responsibility  in  the  matter. " 

"Doctor  Hilary  has,  then,"  she  flashed  out. 

"Has  he?"  was  the  quiet  response. 
■  "He  has  told  people  you  were  dead." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?" 


'/(N  OLD  MAN  IN  A  LIBRARY         195 

''Well,  he's  let  them  think  so  anyway.  Why 
has  he?"  demanded  Trix. 

"You  ask  a  good  many  questions  for  an — er — • 
an  intruder, "  remarked  the  man. 

Trix's  chin  went  up.     "I'm  sorry.   I  apologize. 

ru.go." 

"No,  don't, ' '  said  the  man.     * ' Sit  down. ' ' 

Trix  sat  down  near  a  table.  She  looked  straight 
at  him. 

"Well, "  she  asked,  "what  do  you  want  to  say  to 
me?" 

"I  am  Nicholas  Danver, "  he  said. 

"I  was  quite  sure  of  that,"  nodded  Trix.  She 
was  recovering  her  self-possession. 

"I  had  an  excellent  reason  for  allowing  people 
to  imagine  I  was  dead, "  he  remarked,  "as  excellent 
a  one,  perhaps,  as  yoiu^s  for  your — ^your  tmexpected 
■   appearance. " 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  say  'intrusion'  again," 
said  Trix  thoughtfully. 

Nicholas  gave  a  short  laugh. 

There  was  a  little  silence. 

"Doctor  Hilary  must  have  told  a  dreadful  lot 
of  lies,"  said  Trix  slowly  and  not  a  Httle  regret- 
fuUy. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Nicholas,  "he  told 
none. " 

Trix  looked  up  quickly. 

"Listen,"  said  Nicholas,  "it's  qmte  an  interest- 
ing little  history  in  its  way.  You  can  stop  me  if  I 
bore  you.  .  .  .      Doctor  Hilary  says,  in  the  hear- 


196         ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

ing  of  a  housemaid,  that  it  might  be  a  good  plan  to 
consult  a  specialist.  It  is  announced  in  the  village 
that  the  Squire  is  going  to  consult  a  speciaUst. 
Doctor  Hilary  travels  up  to  town  with  an  empty 
litter.  The  village  announces  that  he  has  taken 
the  Squire  to  the  speciaHst.  He  returns  alone. 
The  station-master  asks  him  when  the  Squire 
will  return  from  London.  He  is  briefly  told, 
never.  The  village  announces  the  Squire's  de- 
mise. I  don't  say  that  certain  little  further  inci- 
dents did  not  lend  colour  to  the  idea,  such  as  the 
Squire  confining  himself  entirely  to  two  rooms,  and 
allowing  the  butler  alone  of  the  servants  to  see 
him;  Doctor  Hilary's  dismissal  of  the  other  indoor 
servants  on  his  return  to  town ;  the  deserted  appear- 
ance of  the  house.  But  from  first  to  last  there 
was  less  actual  direct  lying  in  the  matter,  than  in — 
shall  I  say,  than  in  a  simple  sneeze. " 

A  third  time  the  colour  mounted  in  Trix's 
cheeks. 

"You'll  not  let  me  forget  that, "  she  said  patheti- 
cally. "But  why  ever  did  you  want  everyone  to 
think  you  were  dead?" 

Nicholas  looked  towards  the  window  thought- 
fully, niminatively. 

"That,  my  dear  yoimg  lady,  is  my  own  affair." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Trix  quickly.  She 
lapsed  into  silence.  Suddenly  she  looked  up,  an 
elfin  smile  of  pure  mischief  dancing  in  her  eyes. 
"And  now  I  know  you're  not  dead,"  she  re- 
marked. 


AN  OLD  MAN  IN  A  LIBRARY         197 

"Exactly,"  said  Nicholas.  "You  know  I'm 
not  dead." 

"Well?"  demanded  Trix. 

"Well,  of  course  you  can  go  and  publish  the 
news  to  the  world, "  he  remarked  smoothly. 

"And  equally  of  course, "  retorted  Trix,  "I  shall 
do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Quite  possibly  you  mayn't 
trust  me,  because — because  I  did  sneeze.  But 
honestly  I  didn't  have  time  to  think  properly 
then,  at  least,  only  time  to  think  how  to  get  out  of 
the  difficulty,  and  not  time  to  think  about  fairness 
or  anything.  I  truly  don't  tell  lies  generally.  And 
to  tell  about  you  would  be  like  telling  what  was 
in  a  private  letter  if  you'd  read  it  by  accident,  so 
of  course  I  shan't  say  a  word." 

Nicholas  held  out  his  hand  without  speaking. 
Trix  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  put  her  own  warm 
hand  into  his  cold  one. 

"All  right,"  he  said  in  an  oddly  gentle  voice. 
"And  you  can  speak  to  Doctor  Hilary  about  it  if 
you  like.  You'll  no  doubt  need  a  safety  valve.  '* 
He  looked  again  at  her,  still  holding  her  hand. 
"Haven't  I  seen  you  before?"  he  asked. 

Trix  nodded.  "When  I  was  a  tiny  child.  My 
name  is  Trix  Devereux.  I  used  to  come  here  with 
my  father." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  "Jack  Devereux's 
daughter!    How  is  the  old  fellow?" 

"He  died  five  years  ago, "  said  Trix  softly. 

Nicholas  dropped  her  hand. 

"And   I   Hve   on,"   he  said   grimly.     "It's  a 


198         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

queer  world."  He  looked  down  at  the  black  dress- 
ing gown  which  hid  his  useless  legs.  "Bah, 
Where's  the  use  of  sentiment  at  this  time  of  day. 
Anyhow  it's  a  pleasure  to  meet  you,  even  though 
your  entrance  was  a  bit  of " 

"An  intrusion,"  smiled  Trix. 

"I  was  going  to  say  a  surprise,"  said  Nicholas 
courteously.  "And  now  you  must  allow  me  to 
give  you  some  tea. " 

Trix  hesitated. 

"Oh,  but,"  she  demurred,  "the  butler  will  see 
me." 

"And  a  very  pleasant  sight  for  him, "  responded 
Nicholas,  "if  you  will  permit  an  old  man  to  pay 
you  a  compUment.  Besides  Jessop  is  used  to 
holding  his  tongue. " 

Trix  laughed. 

"That,"  she  said,  "I  can  quite  well  imagine." 

Nicholas  pressed  the  electric  button  attached 
to  the  arm  of  his  chair.  He  watched  the  door,  a 
curious  amusement  in  his  eyes. 

Trix  attempted  an  appearance  of  utter  uncon- 
cern, nevertheless  she  could  not  avoid  a  reflection 
or  two  regarding  the  butler's  possible  views  on  her 
presence. 

During  the  few  seconds  of  waiting,  she  surveyed 
the  room.  It  was  extraordinarily  familiar.  No- 
thing was  altered  from  her  childish  days.  The 
very  position  of  the  furniture  was  the  same.  There 
were  the  same  heavy  brocaded  curtains  to  the 
windows,  the  same  morocco-covered  chairs,  the 


AN  OLD  MAN  IN  A  LIBRARY         199 

same  thick  Aubusson  carpet,  the  same  book-cases 
lined  with  rather  fusty  books,  the  same  great  dogs 
in  the  fireplace. 

Nicholas  looked  at  her,  observing  her  survey. 

"Well?"  he  queried. 

"It's  all  so  exactly  the  same,"  responded  Trix, 

"I  never  cared  for  change,"  said  Nicholas 
shortly. 

And  then  the  door  opened. 

"Jessop, "  said  Nicholas  smooth-voiced,  "Will 
you  kindly  bring  tea  for  me  and  this  young  lady.'* 

A  flicker,  a  very  faint  flicker  of  amazement 
passed  over  the  man's  face. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  responded,  and  turned  from  the 
room. 

"An  excellent  servant,"  remarked  Nicholas. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Trix  reflectively,  "how  they 
manage  to  see  everything,  and  look  as  if  they  saw 
nothing.  When  I  see  things  it's  perfectly  obvious 
to  everyone  else  I  am  seeing  them,     I — I   look.** 

"So  do  most  people, "  returned  Nicholas. 

When,  some  half -hour  later,  Trix  rose  to  take 
leave,  Nicholas  again  held  out  his  hand.  "I 
believe  I'd  ask  you  to  come  and  pay  me  another 
visit,"  he  said,  "but  it  would  be  wiser  not.  It  is 
not  easy  for — er,  dead  men  to  receive   visitors.'* 

"I  wish  you  hadn't — died,"  said  Trix  impul- 
sively. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  asked  Nicholas  curiously. 

Trix  nodded.    There  was  an  odd  lump  in  her 


200         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

throat,  a  lump  that  for  the  moment  prevented 
lier  from  speaking. 

"You're  a  queer  child,"  smiled  Nicholas. 

The  tears  welled  up  suddenly  in  Trix's  eyes. 

"It's  so  lonely,"  she  said,  with  a  half -sob. 

"My  own  doing, "  responded  Nicholas. 

"That  doesn't  make  it  nicer,  but  worse, "  gulped 
Trix. 

Nicholas  held  her  hand  tighter. 

"On  the  contrary,  it's  better.  It's  my  own 
choice."     He  emphasized  the  last  word  a  Httle. 

Trix  was  silent.     Nicholas  let   go  her  hand. 

"Let  yourself  out  the  front  way,"  he  said.  "I 
am  sorry  I  am  unable  to  accompany  you. " 

Trix  went  slowly  to  the  Hbrary  door.  At  the 
door  she  turned. 

"It  mayn't  be  right  of  me,"  she  announced, 
*'but  I'm  glad,  really  glad  I  did  sneeze." 

Nicholas  laughed. 

"To  be  perfectly  candid,"  he  remarked,  "so 
ami." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ANTONY   FINDS  A   GLOVE 

Trix's  appearance  at  the  door  in  the  wall  had 
fairly  dumbfounded  Antony.  He  had  recognized 
her  instantly.  And  the  amazing  thing  was  that 
she  was  exactly  as  he  had  seen  her  in  his  dream. 
Her  announcement  had  carried  the  dream  sense 
further,  and  it  was  with  a  queer  feeling  of  intense 
disappointment  that  he  fotmd  no  one  standing  out- 
side the  gate.  There  was  nothing  but  the  silent' 
deserted  wood  and  the  mound  of  leaf-mould. 
For  a  moment  or  so  he  stood  listening,  almost 
expecting  to  hear  a  footstep  among  the  trees. 
Nothing  but  silence  greeted  him,  however,  broken 
only  by  the  faint  rustling  of  the  leaves. 

He  turned  back  to  the  garden.  It  was  empty;. 
There  was  nothing,  nothing  on  earth  to  prove  that^ 
the  whole  thing  had  not  been  an  extraordinarily 
vivid  waking  dream.  And  if  it  were  a  dream, 
surely  it  was  calculated  to  dispel  the  relief  the 
first  dream  had  brought  him.  Yet  was  it  a  dream? 
Could  it  have  been  ?  Wasn't  he  entirely  awake, 
and  in  the  possession  of  his  right  senses?" 

201 


202         ANTONY  GRAY— GARDENER 

Demanding  thus  of  his  soul,  solemn,  bewildered, 
and  reflective,  he  turned  once  more  to  his  wheel- 
barrow. Ten  minutes  later,  trundling  it  down  a 
cinder  path,  his  eye  fell  on  an  object  lying  beneath 
a  gooseberry  bush.  He  dropped  the  barrow,  and 
picked  up  the  object. 

It  was  a  long  soft  doe-skin  glove. 

"It  wasn't  a  dream,"  said  Antony  triumphantly. 
*'But  where  in  the  name  of  all  that's  wonderful 
did  she  come  from?  And  where  did  she  vanish 
to?" 

He  put  the  glove  into  his  pocket,  and  resumed 
his  work. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  remarked  to  himself  as  he 
heaved  the  leaf-mould  out  of  the  barrow,  "that  she 
knew  perfectly  well  there  was  no  one  at  the  gate. 
I  wonder  why  she  said  there  was,  and  why,  above 
all,  she  made  such  an  extraordinarily  unexpected 
appearance." 

These  considerations  engrossed  his  mind  for  at 
least  the  next  half -hour,  when,  the  leaf- mould 
having  been  transported  from  the  wood,  he  went 
round  to  the  front  of  the  house  to  trim  the  edges  of 
the  lawn.  He  was  on  his  knees  on  the  gravel 
path,  busily  engaged  with  a  pair  of  shears,  when 
he  heard  the  amazing  sound  of  the  front  door 
opening  and  shutting.  He  looked  round  over  his 
shoulder,  to  see  the  same  apparition  that  had 
appeared  to  him  from  the  wood,  walking  calmly 
down  the  steps  and  in  the  direction  of  the  drive. 
Apparently  she  was  too  engrossed  with  her  own 


ANTONY  FINDS  A  GLOVE  203 

thoughts  to  observe  him  where  he  was  kneeling  at  a 
little  distance  to  the  eastward  of  the  front  door. 

"Well!"  ejaculated  Antony  bewildered.  And 
he  gazed  after  her. 

It  was  not  till  her  white  dress  had  become  a 
speck  in  the  distance,  that  Antony  remembered 
the  long  soft  glove  reposing  in  his  pocket.  He 
dropped  his  shears,  and  bolted  after  her. 

Trix  was  half-way  down  the  drive,  when  she 
heard  rapid  steps  behind  her.  She  looked  back,  to 
see  that  she  was  being  pursued  by  the  young  man 
who  had  formerly  been  tnindling  a  wheelbarrow. 

Her  first  instinct  was  one  of  flight.  Her  second, 
conscious  that  the  owner  of  the  property  had  con- 
doned her  intrusion,  and  also  having  in  view  the 
fact  that  there  was  nowhere  but  straight  ahead  to 
run,  and  he  was  in  all  probability  fleeter  of  foot 
than  she,  was  to  stand  her  ground,  and  that  as 
unconcernedly  as  possible. 

"Yes?"  queried  Trix  with  studied  calmness,  as 
he  came  up  to  her. 

"Excuse  me.  Miss,  but  you  dropped  this  in  the 
kitchen  garden. "  Antony  held  out  the  long  soft 
glove. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Trix,  infinitely  relieved 
that  his  rapid  approach  had  signified  nothing 
worse  than  the  restoration  of  her  own  lost  property. 
And  then  she  looked  at  him.  Where  on  earth  had 
she  seen  him  before? 

"There  wasn't  any  one  at  the  gate,  Miss,"  said 
Antony  suddenly. 


204         /IN TONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Trix  flushed.  "Oh,  wasn't  there?  I—"  she 
broke  off. 

Then  she  looked  straight  at  him. 

"I  knew  there  wasn't,"  she  confessed.  "But  I 
was  afraid  to  go  back,  so  I  had  to  make  you  look 
away  while  I  ran.  It  was  the  cows."  She  sighed. 
She  felt  she  had  been  making  bovine  explanations 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon. 

"Cows,  Miss?"  queried  Antony,  a  twinkle  in  his 
eyes. 

Trix  nodded. 

"Yes;  awful  beasts  with  white  faces,  in  the 
field  above  the  wood.  I'm  not  sure  they  weren't 
bulls." 

Antony  laughed. 

'"Sure,  and  why  weren't  you  telling  me,  then? 
I'd  have  tackled  them  for  you." 

Trix  smiled. 

"I  never  thought  of  that  way  out  of  the  dijBfi- 
ctilty, "  she  owned.  "But  it  will  be  all  right,  I 
ex — "  She  broke  off.  She  had  been  within  an 
ace  of  saying  she  had  explained  matters  to  Mr, 
Danver.  She  really  must  be  careful.  ' '  I  expect — 
I'm  sure  you  won't  get  into  trouble  about  it, "  she 
stuttered. 

"Sure,  that's  all  right, "  he  said,  a  trifle  puzzled. 

There  was  a  queer  pleasure  in  this  little  renewal 
of  the  acquaintanceship  of  the  bygone  days, 
despite  the  fact  of  its  being  an  entirely  one-sided 
renewal.  He'd  have  known  her  anywhere.  It  was 
the  same  small  vivacious  face,  the  same  odd  little 


ANTONY  FINDS  A  GLOVE  205 

upward  tilt  to  the  chin,  the  same  varied  inflection 
of  voice,  the  same  Httle  quick  gestures.  He  would 
have  liked  to  keep  her  standing  there  while  he 
recalled  the  small  imperious  child  in  the  elfin-like 
figure  before  him.  But,  her  property  having  been 
restored,  there  was  nothing  on  earth  further  he 
could  say,  no  possible  reason  for  prolonging  the 
conversation.  He  waited,  however,  for  Trix 
to  give  the  dismissal. 

Trix  was  looking  at  him,  a  queer  puzzlement  in 
her  eyes.  Why  waj  his  face  so  oddly  famiHar?  It' 
was  utterly  impossible  that  she  should  have  met 
him  before,  at  all  events  on  the  intimate  footing 
the  familiarity  of  his  face  suggested.  It  must  be 
merely  an  extraordinary  likeness  to  someone  to 
whom  she  could  not  at  the  moment  put  a  name. 
Quite  suddenly  she  realized  that  they  were  scrutin- 
izing each  other  in  a  way  that  certainly  cannot 
be  termed  exactly  orthodox.  She  pulled  herself 
together. 

"Thank  you  for  restoring  my  glove,"  said  she 
with  a  fine  resumption  of  dignity;  and  she  turned 
off  once  more  down  the  drive. 

Antony  went  slowly  back  to  his  shears. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AN  INTEREST  IN  LIFE 

,  Doctor  Hilary  was  walking  down  the  lane  in  a 
somewhat  preoccupied  frame  of  mind.  He  had 
been  oddly  preoccupied  the  last  day  or  so,  lapsing 
into  prolonged  meditations  from  which  he  would 
emerge  with  a  sudden  and  almost  guilty  start. 

Coming  opposite  the  drive  gates  of  Chorley  Old 
Hall,  he  was  brought  to  a  sense  of  his  surroundings 
by  a  figure,  which  emerged  suddenly  from  them 
and  came  to  a  dead  stop. 

"  Oh ! "  ejaculated  Doctor  Hilary.  *  *  Good  after- 
noon. "     And  he  took  off  his  cap. 

*  *  Good  afternoon, ' '  responded  Trix.  She  turned 
along  the  lane  beside  him. 

"Have  you  been  interviewing  the  gardens?"  he 
asked.  She  fancied  there  was  the  faintest  trace  of 
anxiety  in  his  voice. 

A  sudden  spirit  of  mischief  took  possession  of 
Trix.  She  had  been  given  leave.  It  was  really  too 
good  an  opportunity  to  be  lost. 

"Oh  no, "  she  responded,  dove-like  innocence  in 
her  voice,  "I've  just  been  having  tea  with  Mr. 
Danver. " 

306 


AN  INTEREST  IN  LIFE  207 

If  she  wanted  to  see  amazement  written  on  his 
face,  she  had  her  desire.  It  spread  itself  large 
over  his  countenance,  finding  verbal  expression  in 
an  utteriy  astounded  gasp. 

"He  seems  very  well, "  said  Trix  demurely. 

"Miss  Devereux!"  ejaculated  Doctor  Hilary. 

"Yes?"  asked  Trix  sweetly. 

"Have  you  known  all  the  time?"  he  demanded.  ^ 

Trix  shook  her  head,  laughter  dancing  in  her 
eyes.     It  found  its  way  to  her  lips. 

"Oh,  you  looked  so  surprised,"  she  gurgled. 
*  *  I  hadn't  the  tiniest  bit  of  an  idea.  How  could  I  ? 
I  was  never  so  flummuxed  in  all  my  life  as  when  I 
realized  who  was  talking  to  me." 

Doctor  Hilary  was  silent. 

Trix  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  half  timidly. 

"Don't  be  angry,"  she  said.  "He  wasn't. 
And  I've  promised  faithfully  not  to  tell. " 

Doctor  Hilary  glanced  down  at  the  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"I'm  not  angry,"  he  said  with  a  queer  smile, 
"I'm  only — "     He  stopped. 

"Flummuxed,  like  I  was,"  nodded  Trix,  remov- 
ing her  hand.  "It's  quite  the  amazingest  thing 
I  ever  knew."  She  gave  another  little  gurgle  of 
laughter,  looking  up  at  the  very  blue  sky  as  if 
inviting  it  to  share  her  pleasure. 

"How  much  did  he  tell  you?"  asked  Doctor 
Hilary. 

Trix  lowered  her  chin,  and  considered  briefly. 

"Just   nothing,   now   I  come  to  think  of  it. 


208        ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  Mr.  Danver.  But 
then  I'd  really  been  the  first  to  volunteer  that 
piece  of  information.  I  haven't  the  faintest 
notion  why  there's  all  this  mystery,  and  why  he 
has  pretended  to  be  dead.  He  didn't  want  me 
to  know  that.  So  please  don't  say  anything  that 
could  tell  me.     He  said  I  could  talk  to  you. " 

"I  won't,"  smiled  Doctor  Hilary  answering  the 
request. 

They  walked  on  a  few  steps  in  silence. 

"But  what  I  should  like  to  know,"  he  said 
after  a  minute,  "is  how  you  managed  to  get  inside 
the  house  at  all?" 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  Trix  twisting  her  glove  round 
her  wrist. 

Doctor  Hilary  looked  rather  surprised. 

"Don't  say  if  you'd  rather  not,"  he  remarked 
quickly. 

Trix  sighed  again. 

"Oh,  I  may  as  well.  It  will  only  be  the  third 
time  I've  had  to  own  up." 

And  she  proceeded  with  a  careful  recapitulation 
of  the  events  of  the  afternoon. 

"You  must  have  been  very  frightened, "  said  he 
as  she  ended. 

"I  was,"  owned  Trix. 

"Ah,  well;  it's  all  over  now, "  he  comforted  her. 

"Y-yes,"  said  Trix  doubtfully. 

"What's  troubling  you?"  he  demanded. 

"The  sneeze,"  confessed  Trix  in  a  very  small 
voice. 


AN  INTEREST  IN  LIFE  209 

Doctor  Hilary  stifled  a  sudden  spasm  of  laugh- 
ter.    She  was  so  utterly  and  entirely  in  earnest. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  over  a  Uttle  thing  like  that,  if 
I  were  you, "  said  he  consoUngly. 

Once  more  Trix  sighed. 

"Of  coiu*se  it's  absurd,"  she  said.  "I  know 
it's  absurd.  But,  somehow,  little  things  do  worry 
me,  even  when  I  know  they're  silly.  And  there's 
just  enough  that's  not  silliness  in  this  to  let  it  be  a 
real  worry." 

"A  genuine  midge  bite,"  he  suggested.  "But, 
you  know,  rubbing  it  only  makes  it  worse. " 

She  laughed  a  trifle  shakily. 

"And  honestly,"  he  pursued,  "though  I  do 
imderstand  your — ^your  conscience  in  the  matter, 
I'm  really  very  glad  you've  seen  Mr.  Danver. " 

"Well,  so  was  I,"  owned  Trix. 

Again  there  was  a  silence.  They  were  walking 
down  a  narrow  lane  bordered  on  either  side  with 
high  banks  and  hedges.  The  dust  lay  rather 
thick  on  the  grass  and  leaves.  It  had  already 
covered  their  shoes  with  its  grey  powder.  Doctor 
Hilary  was  turning  certain  matters  in  his  mind. 
Presently  he  gave  voice  to  them. 

"It  is  exceedingly  good  for  him  that  someone 
besides  myself  and  the  butler  and  his  wife  should 
know  that  he  is  alive,  and  that  he  should  know  they 
do  know  it.  I  agreed  to  this  mad  business  because 
I  beHeved  it  would  give  him  an  interest  in  Hving, 
eccentric  though  the  interest  might  be." 

Trix  gurgled. 
14 


2IO         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

"It  sounds  so  odd,"  she  explained,  "to hear  you 
say  that  pretending  to  be  dead  coiild  give  any  one 
an  interest  in  life."  And  she  gurgled  again. 
Trix's  gurgling  was  peculiarly  infectious. 

"Odd!"  laughed  Doctor  Hilary.  "It's  the 
oddest  thing  imaginable.  No  one  but  Nick  could 
have  conceived  the  whole  business,  or  found  the 
smallest  interest  in  it.  But  he  did  find  an  inter- 
est, and  that  was  enough  for  me.  He  is  lonely 
now,  I  grant.  But  before  this — this  invention,  he 
was  'stagnant  as  well  as  lonely.  His  mind,  and 
seemingly  his  soul  with  it,  had  become  practically 
atrophied.  His  mind  has  now  been  roused  to 
interest,  though  the  most  extraordinarily  eccentric 
interest." 

"And  his  soul?"  queried  Trix  simply. 

Doctor  Hilary  shook  his  head. 

"Ah,  that  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

jThey  parted  company  at  the  door  of  Doctor 
Hilary's  house.  Trix  went  on  slowly  down  the 
road.  She  paused  opposite  the  presbytery,  be- 
fore turning  to  the  left  in  the  direction  of  Wood- 
leigh.  She  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  to  see  Father 
Dormer. 

He  came  to  her  in  the  little  parlour. 

"Oh,"  said  Trix,  getting  up  as  he  entered,  "I 
only  came  to  ask  you  to  say  a  Mass  for  my  inten- 
tion. And,  please,  will  you  say  one  every  week  till 
I  ask  you  to  stop?" 

"By  all  means,"  he  responded. 

"Thank  you, "  said  Trix.    Then  she  glanced  at 


AN  INTEREST  IN  LIFE  211 

a  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  "I  had  no  idea  it  was 
so  late,"  she  said. 

She  walked  home  at  a  fair  pace.  The  midge 
bite  had  ceased  to  worry  her.  But  then,  at  Doctor 
Hilary's  suggestion,  she  had  ceased  to  rub  it.  She 
was  thinking  of  only  one  thing  now,  of  a  solitary 
old  figure  in  a  large  and  gloomy  library. 

She  sighed  heavily  once  or  twice.  Well,  at  all 
events  she  had  asked  for  Masses  for  him. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

PRICKLES 

If  you  happen  to  have  anything  on  your  mind, 
it  is  impossible — or  practically  impossible — to 
avoid  thinking  about  it.  Which,  doubtless,  is  so 
obvious  a  fact,  it  is  barely  worth  stating. 

The  Duchessa  di  Donatello  had  something  on 
her  mind;  it  possessed  her  waking  thoughts,  it 
coloured  her  dreams.  And  what  that  something 
was,  is  also,  perhaps,  entirely  obvious.  Again 
and  again  she  told  herself  that  she  would  not  dwell 
on  the  subject;  but  she  might  as  well  have  tried 
to  dam  a  river  with  a  piece  of  tissue  paper,  as 
prevent  the  thought  from  filling  her  mind;  and  that 
probably  because — ^with  true  feminine  inconsist- 
ency— she  welcomed  it  quite  as  much  as  she  tried 
to  dispel  it. 

Occasionally  she  allowed  it  free  entry,  regarded 
it,  summed  it  up  as  imsatisfactory,  and  sternly  dis- 
missed it.  In  three  minutes  it  was  welling  up 
again,  perhaps  in  the  same  old  route,  perhaps 
choosing  a  different  course. 

"Why  can't  I  put  the  man  and  everything  con- 

212 


PRICKLES  213 

ceming  him  out  of  my  mind  for  good  and  all?'* 
she  asked  herself  more  than  once.  And,  whatever 
the  reply  to  her  query,  the  fact  remained  that  she 
couldn't ;  the  thought  had  become  something  of  an 
obsession. 

Now,  when  a  thought  has  become  an  obsession, 
there  is  practically  only  one  way  to  free  oneself 
from  it,  and  that  is  by  speech.  Speech  has  a  way 
of  clearing  the  clogged  channels  of  the  mind,  and 
allowing  the  thought  to  flow  outwards,  and  possi- 
bly to  disappear  altogether;  whereas,  without  this 
clearance,  the  thought  of  necessity  retimis  to  its 
source,  gathering  in  volume  with  each  recoil. 

But  speech  is  frequently  not  at  all  easy,  and 
that  not  only  because  there  is  often  a  difficulty  in 
finding  the  right  confidant,  but  because,  with  the 
channels  thus  clogged,  it  is  a  distinct  effort  to  clear 
them.  Also,  though  subconsciously  you  may 
realize  its  desirability,  it  is  often  merely  sub- 
consciously, and  reason  and  common  sense, — or, 
rather,  what  you  at  the  moment  quite  erroneously 
beUeve  to  be  reason  and  cormnon  sense — will  urge 
a  himdred  motives  upon  you  in  favoiu-  of  silence. 
Maybe  that  most  subtle  person  the  devil  is  the 
suggester  of  these  motives.  If  he  can't  get  much 
of  a  look  in  by  direct  means,  he'll  try  indirect  ones, 
and  depression  is  one  of  his  favourite  indirect 
methods.  At  all  events  so  the  old  spiritual  writers 
tell  us,  and  doubtless  they  knew  what  they  were 
talking  about. 

Now,  Trix  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  Pia 


214  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

had  something  on  her  mind;  she  was  also  perfectly 
well  aware  that  it  was  something  she  would  have 
an  enormous  difficulty  in  talking  about.  And  the 
question  was,  how  to  give  her  even  the  tiniest  lead. 

Trix  had  stated  that  she  had  guessed  the  col- 
our of  the  soap-bubble;  but  she  hadn't  the  faintest 
notion  where  it  had  come  into  existence,  nor  where 
and  how  it  had  burst.  Nor  had  Pia  given  her 
directly  the  smallest  hint  of  its  having  ever  existed. 
All  of  which  facts  made  it  exceedingly  difficult 
for  her  even  to  hint  at  soap-bubbles — figuratively 
speaking  of  course — as  a  subject  of  conversation. 

And  Pia  was  slightly  irritable  too.  Of  course 
it  was  entirely  because  she  was  unhappy,  but  it 
didn't  conduce  to  intimate  conversation.  Prickles 
would  suddenly  appear  among  the  most  innocent 
looking  of  flowers,  in  a  way  that  was  entirely 
disconcerting  and  utterly  unpleasant.  And  the 
worst  of  it  was,  that  there  was  no  avoiding  them. 
They  darted  out  and  pricked  you  before  you  were 
even  aware  of  their  presence.  It  was  so  utterly 
unlike  Pia  too,  and  so — Trix  winked  back  a  tear 
as  she  thought  of  it — so  hurting. 

At  last  she  came  to  a  decision.  The  prickles 
simply  must  be  handled  and  extracted  if  possible. 
Of  course  she  might  get  quite  unpleasantly  stabbed 
in  the  process,  but  at  all  events  she'd  be  prepared 
for  the  risk,  and  anything  would  be  better  than 
the  little  darts  appearing  at  quite  unexpected 
moments  and  places. 

"The  next  time  I'm  pricked,"  said  Trix  to  her- 


PRICKLES  215 

self  firmly,  "I'll  seize  hold  of  the  prickle,  and  then 
perhaps  we'll  see  where  we  are. " 

And,  as  a  result  perhaps  of  this  resolution,  the 
prickles  suddenly  disappeared.  Trix  was  im- 
measiu-ably  relieved  in  one  sense,  but  not  entirely 
easy.  She  fancied  the  prickles  to  be  hidden 
rather  than  extracted.  However,  they'd  ceased 
to  wound  for  the  time  being,  and  that  certainly  was 
an  enormous  comfort.  Miss  Tibbutt,  with  greater 
optimism  than  Trix,  believed  all  to  be  entirely  well 
once  more,  and  rejoiced  accordingly. 

"Doctor  Hilary  has  been  over  here  rather 
often  lately,"  remarked  Miss  Tibbutt  one  after- 
noon. Pia  and  she  were  sitting  in  the  garden 
together. 

"Old  Mrs.  Mosely  is  ill,"  returned  Pia  smiling 
oracularly. 

"But  only  a  very  little  ill,"  said  Miss  Tibbutt 
reflectively.  "Her  daughter  told  me  only  yester- 
day— I'm  afraid  it  wasn't  very  grateful  of  her — 
that  the  Doctor  had  been  'moidering  around  like 
'sif  mother  was  on  her  dying  bed,  and  her  wi* 
naught  but  a  bit  o'  cold  to  her  chest,  what's  gone 
to  her  head  now,  and  a  glass  or  two  o'  hot  cider, 
and  ginger,  and  allspice,  and  rosemary  will  be 
puttin'  right  sooner  nor  you  can  flick  a  fly  off  a 
sugar  basin.'" 

Pia  laughed. 

"My  dear  Tibby,  he  doesn't  come  to  see  Mrs. 
Mosely. " 


2i6  ANTONY  GRAY,—€ARDENER 

Miss  Tibbutt  looked  up  in  perplexed  query. 

"He  comes  on  here  to  tea,  doesn't  he?"  asked 
Pia,  kindly,  after  the  manner  of  one  giving  a  lead. 

"Certainly,"  returned  Miss  Tibbutt,  still  per- 
plexed. "He  would  naturally  do  so,  since  he  is  in 
Woodleigh  just  at  tea  time. " 

Pia  leant  back  in  her  seat,  and  looked  at  Miss 
Tibbutt. 

"Tibby  dear,  you're  amazingly  slow  at  the 
uptake." 

Miss  Tibbutt  blinked  at  Pia  over  her  spectacles. 

"Please  explain, "  said  she  meekly. 

Pia  laughed. 

"Haven't  you  discovered,  Tibby  dear,  that  it's 
Trix  he  comes  to  see?" 

"Trix!"  ejaculated  Miss  Tibbutt. 

"Yes;  and  she  is  quite  as  imaware  of  the  fact 
as  you  are,  so  don't,  for  all  the  world,  enlighten 
her.     Leave  that  to  him,  if  he  means  to. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  had  let  her  work  fall,  and  was 
gazing  round-eyed  at  Pia. 

"But,  my  dear  Pia,  he's  years  older  than  Trix. " 

"Oh,  not  so  very  many,"  said  Pia  reassuringly. 
* '  Fifteen  or  sixteen,  perhaps.  Trix  is  twenty-four, 
you  know." 

"And  Trix  is  leaving  here  the  day  after  to- 
morrow," said  Miss  Tibbutt  regretfully. 

"London  isn't  the  antipodes,"  declared  Pia. 
"She  can  come  here  again,  or  business  may  take 
Doctor  Hilary  to  London.     There  are  trains." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Miss  Tibbutt. 


PRICKLES  317 

Trix  appeared  at  the  open  drawing-room  window 
and  came  out  on  to  the  terrace.  She  paused  for  a 
moment  to  pick  a  dead  rose  off  a  bush  growing  near 
the  house.  Then  she  saw  the  two  imder  the  lime 
tree.     She  came  towards  them. 

"Doctor  Hilary  has  just  driven  up  through  the 
plantation  gate, "  she  said.  "I  suppose  he's  com- 
ing to  tea.  His  man  was  evidently  going  to  put  up 
the  horse." 

The  Duchessa  glanced  at  a  gold  bracelet  watch 
on  her  wrist. 

"It's  four  o'clock,"  she  said. 

"He  takes  tea  quite  for  granted,"  smiled  Trix, 

"I  suppose,"  responded  the  Duchessa,  "that  he 
considers  five  almost  consecutive  invitations  equi- 
valent to  one  standing  one. " 

' '  Well,  anyhow  I  should, "  nodded  Trix.  '  *  What 
are  you  looking  so  wise  about,  Tibby  angel?" 

Miss  Tibbutt  started.  "Was  I  looking  wise? 
I  didn't  know. " 

Trix  perched  herself  on  the  table. 

"Dale  will  clear  me  off  in  a  minute,"  she 
announced.  "I  suppose  you'll  have  tea  out  here 
as  usual.  Till  then  it's  the  nicest  seat.  Oh  dear, 
I  wish  I  wasn't  going  home  to-morrow.  That's  not 
a  hint  to  you  to  ask  me  to  stay  longer.  I  shouldn't 
hint,  I'd  speak  straight  out.  But  I  must  join 
Aunt  Lilla  at  her  hydro  place.  She's  getting 
lonely.  She  wants  an  audience  to  which  to  relate 
her  partner's  idiocy  at  Bridge,  and  someone  to 
help   carry   her   photographic   apparatus.      Also 


2i8  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

someone  to  whom  she  can  keep  up  a  perpetual 
flow  of  conversation.  That's  not  the  least  un- 
charitable, as  you'd  know  if  you  knew  Aimt  Lilla. 
I  think  she  must  have  been  bom  talking.  But  I 
love  her  all  the  same. " 

Trix  tilted  back  her  head  and  looked  up  at  the 
sky  through  the  branches  of  the  trees. 

"I  wonder  why  space  is  blue,"  she  said,  "and 
why  it's  so  much  bluer  some  days  than  others, 
even  when  there  aren't  any  clouds. " 

A  step  on  the  terrace  behind  her  put  an  end  to 
her  wondering.  Doctor  Hilary  came  round  the 
corner  of  the  house. 

"I've  taken  your  invitation  for  granted,  Duch- 
essa,  as  I  happened  to  be  out  this  way,"  said  he  as 
he  shook  hands. 

"Is  old  Mrs.  Mosely  still  so  ill?"  asked  Trix, 
sympathy  in  her  voice. 

Miss  Tibbutt  kept  her  eyes  almost  guiltily  on 
her  knitting.  Pia,  glancing  at  her,  laughed  in- 
wardly. 

"She's  better  to-day,"  responded  Doctor  Hil- 
ary cheerfully.  And  then  he  sat  down.  Trix 
had  descended  from  the  table,  and  seated  herself 
in  a  basket  chair. 

Dale  brought  out  the  tea  in  a  few  minutes,  and 
put  it  on  the  table  Trix  had  vacated.  The  con- 
versation was  trivial  and  desultory,  even  more 
trivial  and  desultory  than  most  tea-time  conver- 
sation. Miss  Tibbutt  was  too  occupied  with  Pia's 
recent  revelation  to  have  much  thought  for  speech. 


PRICKLES  219 

Doctor  Hilary  was  never  a  man  of  many  words,  the 
Duchessa  had  been  marvellously  lacking  in  con- 
versation of  late,  and  Trix's  occasional  remarks 
were  mainly  outspoken  reflections  on  the  sunshine 
and  the  flowers,  which  required  no  particular 
response.  Nevertheless  she  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  flatness  in  her  companions,  and  wondered 
vaguely  what  had  caused  it. 

"I'm  going  to  Llandrindod  WeUs  to-morrow," 
said  she  presently. 

Doctor  Hilary  looked  up  quickly. 

"Then  your  visit  here  has  come  to  an  end?"  he 
queried. 

Trix  nodded. 

"Alas,  yes,"  she  sighed,  regret,  half  genuine, 
half  mocking,  in  her  voice.  "But  most  certainly 
I  shall  come  down  again  if  the  Duchessa  will  let  me 
come.  I  had  forgotten,  absolutely  forgotten,  what 
a  perfectly  heavenly  place  this  was.  And  that 
doesn't  in  the  least  mean  that  I  am  coming  solely 
for  the  place,  and  not  to  see  her,  though  I  am  aware 
it  did  not  sound  entirely  tactful." 

"And  when  do  you  suppose  you  will  be  coming 
again?"  asked  Doctor  Hilary  with  a  fine  assump- 
tion of  carelessness,  not  in  the  least  lost  upon  the 
Duchessa. 

"Before  Christmas  I  hope,"  replied  she  in 
Trix's  stead.  ' '  Or,  indeed,  at  any  time  or  moment 
she  chooses, " 

Doctor  Hilary  looked  thoughtful,  grave.  A 
little  frown  wrinkled  between  his  eyebrows.    He 


220  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

pulled  silently  at  his  pipe.  The  Duchessa  was 
watching  him. 

"Alas,  poor  man!"  thought  she  whimsically. 
"He  was  about  to  seize  opportunity,  and  behold, 
fate  snatches  opportunity  from  him.  Oh,  cruel 
fate!" 

And  then  she  beheld  his  brow  clearing.  He 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  began  feel- 
ing in  his  pocket  for  his  pouch  to  refill  it. 

"He's  relieved,"  declared  the  Duchessa  in- 
wardly, and  somewhat  astounded.  '  *  He's  so  amaz- 
ingly diffident,  and  yet  so  utterly  in  love,  he's 
relieved." 

Of  course  she  was  right,  she  knew  perfectly 
well  she  was  right.  Well,  perhaps  courage  would 
grow  with  Trix's  absence.  For  his  own  sake  it  was 
to  be  devoutly  trusted  that  it  would. 

Doctor  Hilary  took  his  tobacco  pouch  from  his 
pocket,  and  with  it  a  small  piece  of  paper.  He 
looked  at  the  paper. 

"The  name  of  a  new  rose, "  he  said.  "Michael 
Field,  the  new  under-gardener  at  the  Hall,  gave  it 
to  me.  He  tells  me  it  is  a  very  free  flowerer,  and  has 
a  lovely  scent.  Do  you  care  to  have  the  name, 
Duchessa?"  He  held  the  slip  of  paper  towards 
her. 

The  Duchessa  looked  carelessly  at  it.  Trix  was 
looking  at  the  Duchessa. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  replied.  "We  have 
plenty  of  roses  here,  and  Thornby  can  no  doubt 
give  me  the  name  of  any  new  kinds  I  shall  want.  '* 


PRICKLES  221 

Now  it  was  not  merely  an  entirely  unnecessary 
refusal,  but  the  tone  of  the  speech  was  nearly,  if 
not  quite,  deliberately  rude.  It  was  a  terribly 
big  prickle,  and  showed  itself  perfectly  distinctly. 
There  wasn't  even  the  smallest  semblance  of  dis- 
guise about  it. 

Doctor  Hilary  put  the  paper  and  his  tobacco 
pouch  back  into  his  pocket. 

"I  must  be  off, "  he  said  in  an  oddly  quiet  voice. 
"I've  one  or  two  other  calls  to  make. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  walked  towards  the  house  with 
him, — ^to  fetch  some  more  knitting,  so  she  an- 
nounced.   Trix  suspected  a  little  mental  stroking. 

"What's  the  matter,  Pia?"  asked  Trix  calmly, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair. 

"The  matter?"  said  Pia,  the  faintest  suspicion 
of  a  flush  in  her  cheeks. 

"You  were  very — ^very  snubbing  to  Doctor  Hil- 
ary,"  annoimced  Trix,  still  calmly.  Inwardly 
she  was  not  so  calm.  In  fact,  her  heart  was 
thumping  quite  loudly. 

"My  dear  Trix,"  replied  the  Duchessa  coldly, 
"I  have  an  excellent  gardener.  I  do  not  care  for 
recommendations  emanating  from  a  complete 
stranger." 

"There  was  no  smallest  need  to  snub  Doctor 
Hilary,  though,"  said  Trix  quietly.  The  queer 
surprise  on  his  face  had  caused  a  little  stab  at  her 
heart. 

The  Duchessa  made  no  reply. 

"Pia,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Trix  again. 


222  ANTON  Y  GRA  Y,— GARDENER 

"I  have  told  you,  nothing,"  responded  the 
Duchessa. 

Trix  shook  her  head.  **Yes;  there  is.  You're 
unhappy.  You've  been — ^you  can  tell  me  to  mind 
my  own  business,  if  you  like — ^you've  been  horribly 
prickly  lately.  You've  tried  to  hiut  my  feelings, 
and  Tibby's,  and  now  you've  tried  to  hurt  Doctor 
Hilary's.  And  he  didn't  deserve  it  in  the  least,  but 
he  thought,  for  a  moment,  he  did.  And  it  isn't 
like  you,  Pia.  It  isn't  one  bit.  Do  tell  me  what's 
the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Pia  again. 

"Darling,  that's  a — a  white  lie  at  all  events." 

Pia  colotued.  "Anyhow  it's  not  worth  talking 
about,"  she  said. 

"Are  you  sure  it  isn't ? "  urged  Trix.  "Couldn't 
I  help  the  weeniest  bit  ?  " 

The  Duchessa  shook  her  head. 

"Darling,"  said  Trix  again,  and  she  slipped  her 
arm  through  Pia's. 

"I'm  all  one  big  bruise, "  said  Pia  suddenly. 

Trix  stroked  her  hand. 

"It  is  entirely  foolish  of  me  to  care,"  said  the 
Duchessa  slowly.  "But  I  happen  to  have  trusted 
someone  rather  implicitly.  I  never  dreamed  it 
possible  the  person  could  stoop  to  act  a  lie.  I 
would  not  have  minded  the  thing  itself, — it  would 
have  been  absurd  for  me  to  have  done  so.  But  it 
hurt  rather  considerably  that  the  person  should 
have  deceived  me  in  the  matter,  in  fact  have  acted 
a  deliberate  lie  about  it.     I  am  honestly  doing  my 


PRICKLES  223 

best  to  forget  the  whole  thing,  but  I  am  being 
constantly  reminded  of  it. " 

Trix  sat  up  very  straight.  So  that  was  it, 
she  told  herself.  How  idiotic  of  her  not  to  have 
guessed  at  once, — days  ago,  that  is, —  when  she 
herself  had  made  her  marvellous  discovery.  It 
was  now  quite  plain  to  her  mind  that  Pia  must 
have  made  it  too.  It  was  Doctor  Hilary  whom 
she  believed  to  be  the  fraud,  the  friend  whom  she 
had  trusted,  and  who  had  acted  a  lie.  The  whole 
oddness  of  Pia's  behaviour  became  suddenly 
perfectly  clear  to  her.  Tibby  had  told  her  that  it 
had  begun  on  her  return  to  Woodleigh.  Well, 
that  must  have  been  when  she  first  found  out. 
How  she'd  found  out,  Trix  didn't  know.  But  that 
was  beside  the  mark.  She  evidently  had  found  out. 

Trix's  mind  ran  back  over  various  little  incidents. 
She  remembered  the  snub  administered,  to  Father 
Dormer  the  evening  after  her  arrival.  The  new 
imder-gardener  had  been  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation then,  of  course  reminding  Pia  of  the  Hall. 
And  she  had  snubbed  Father  Dormer,  as  she  had 
snubbed  Doctor  Hilary  a  few  minutes  ago.  AU 
Pia's  snubs  and  sudden  prickles  came  back  to  her 
mind.  They  all  had  their  origin  in  some  inadvert- 
ent remark  regarding  the  Hall. 

Yes;  everything  was  as  clear  as  daylight  now. 
Pia  had  learnt  of  this  business  in  some  roundabout 
way  that  did  not  allow  of  her  speaking  openly  to 
Doctor  Hilary  on  the  subject,  so  she  saw  merely 
the  fraud,  and  had  no  idea  that  it  was,  in  all  pro- 


224  ANTONY  GRAY,-€ARDENER 

bability,  an  entirely  justifiable  one,  and  that  at  all 
events  no  one  had  told  any  deliberate  He.  Of 
course  Pia  was  disturbed  and  upset.  Wouldn't 
she  have  been  herself,  in  Pia's  place?  And  hadn't 
she  felt  quite  unreasonably  unhappy  till  Mr. 
Danver  had  assured  her  that  Doctor  Hilary  had 
not  spoken  a  single  word  of  actual  iintruth? 

Oh,  poor  Pia! 

Now,  it  was  not  in  the  least  astonishing  that 
Trix's  mind  should  have  leapt  to  this  entirely 
erroneous  conclusion.  For  the  last  fortnight  it 
had  been  full  of  her  discovery.  The  smallest  thing 
that  seemed  to  bear  on  it,  instantly  appeared 
actually  to  do  so.  And  everything  in  her  present 
train  of  thought  fitted  in  with  astonishing  accuracy. 
Each  little  incident  in  Pia's  late  behaviour  fell  into 
place  with  it. 

,  She  did  not  stop  to  consider  that,  if  this  were  the 
sole  cause  of  Pia's  trouble,  she — Pia — was  unques- 
tionably taking  a  very  exaggerated  view  of  it. 
It  never  occurred  to  Trix  to  do  so.  If  she  had  con- 
sidered the  matter  at  all,  it  would  have  been  merely 
to  realize  that  Pia's  attitude  towards  it  was  remark- 
ably like  what  her  own  would  have  been.  She 
would  have  known,  had  she  attempted  analysis 
of  the  subject,  that  she  herself  was  frequently 
troubled  about  trifles,  or  what  at  any  rate  would 
have  appeared  toothers  as  trifles,  where  any  friend 
of  hers  was  concerned.  Her  friends'  actions  and 
her  own,  in  what  are  ordinarily  termed  little 
things,   mattered  quite  supremely  to  her,   most 


PRICKLES  225 

particularly  in  any  question  regarding  honour. 
The  smallest  infringement  of  it  would  be  enough 
to  cause  her  sleepless  nights  and  anxious  days. 
Therefore,  without  attempting  any  analysis,  she 
could  perfectly  well  imderstand  what  she  believed 
Pia's  point  of  view  to  be.  And  her  present 
distress  was,  that,  in  view  of  her  promise,  she 
could  do  nothing  definite  to  help  her. 

She  could  not  show  her  Doctor  Hilary's  stand- 
point in  the  matter,  since  it  was  not  permissible  for 
her  to  give  the  smallest  hint  that  she  was  ac- 
quainted either  with  it,  or  with  the  whole  business 
at  all.  She  could  not  even  hint  that  she  beHeved 
Doctor  Hilary  to  be  the  person  concerning  whom 
Pia  was  troubled.  She  could  only  take  refuge  in 
generalities,  which,  with  a  definite  case  before  her, 
she  felt  to  be  a  peculiarly  unsatisfactory  proceeding. 
Yet  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  It  was 
more  than  probable  that  Pia  was  in  the  same  kind 
of  cleft  stick  as  herself,  and  that  therefore  direct 
discussion  of  the  matter  was  out  of  the  question. 

Still  stroking  Pia's  hand,  Trix  spoke  slowly. 

"Pia,  darling,  what  I  am  going  to  say  will  sound 
very  poor  comfort,  I  know.  But  it's  this.  Isn't  it 
just  possible  that  you  could  give  the — the  person 
concerned  the  benefit  of  a  doubt?  Even  if  it 
seems  to  you  that  he  has  acted  a  lie,  and  therefore 
been  something  of  a  fraud,  mayn't  there  be  some 
extraordinarily  good  reason,  behind  it  all,  that  cir- 
cumstances are  preventing  him  from  explaining? 
Such  queer  things  do  happen,  and  sometimes  people 

IS 


226  ANTONY  GRA Y,— GARDENER 

have  to  appear  to  others  as  frauds,  when  they 
really  aren't  a  bit.  If  you  were  ever  really  friends 
with  the  person — and  you  must  have  been,  or  you 
wouldn't  care — I'd  just  say  to  myself  that  I  would 
trust  him  in  spite  of  every  appearance  to  the 
contrary.  Perhaps  some  day  you'll  be  most  aw- 
fully sorry  if  you  don't.  And  isn't  it  a  miUion 
times  better  to  be  even  mistaken  in  trust  where  a 
friend  is  concerned,  than  give  way  to  the  smallest 
doubt  which  may  afterwards  be  proved  to  be  a 
wrong  doubt?"  j 

Pia  was  silent.  Then  she  said  in  an  oddly 
even  voice, 

"Trix  do  you  k?iow  anything?" 

Trix  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  Pia 
turned  to  look  at  her. 

"TriK!"  she  said  amazed. 

"Pia,"  implored  Trix,  "you  mustn't  ask  me  a 
single  question,  because  I  can't  answer  you.  But 
do,  do,  trust." 

Pia  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Trix,  you're  the  uncanniest  little  mortal 
that  ever  Uved,  and  I  can't  imagine  how  you  could 
have  guessed,  or  what  exactly  it  is  you  really  do 
know.  But  I  believe  I  am  going  to  take  your 
advice.** 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AN  OFFER  AND  A  REFUSAL 

Antony  was  working  in  his  front  garden.  It 
was  a  Saturday  afternoon,  and  a  blazingly  hot  one. 
Every  now  and  then  he  paused  to  lean  on  his  spade, 
and  look  out  to  where  the  blue  sea  lay  shining  and 
gHstening  in  the  sunlight. 

It  was  amazingly  blue,  almost  as  blue  as  the 
sea  depicted  on  the  posters  of  famous  seaside 
resorts,  posters  in  which  a  bare-legged  child  with  a 
bucket  and  spade,  and  the  widest  of  wide  smiles 
is  invariably  seen  in  the  foregroimd.  Certainly 
the  designers  of  these  posters  are  not  students  of 
child  nature.  If  they  were,  they  would  know  that 
a  really  absorbed  and  happy  child  is  almost 
portentously  solemn.  It  hasn't  the  time  to  waste 
on  smiles ;  the  building  of  sand  castles  and  fortresses 
is  infinitely  too  engrossing  an  occupation.  A 
smile  will  greet  the  anticipation;  it  is  lost  in  the 
stupendous  joy  of  the  fact.  But  as  smiles  are 
evidently  considered  de  rigueur  by  the  designers  of 
posters,  and  as  the  mere  anticipation  will  not 
allow  of  the  portrayal  of  the  Rickett's  blue  sea, 

227 


228  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

destined  to  hit  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  smiles  and 
sea  have — ^rightly  or  wrongly — to  be  combined. 

Antony  gazed  at  the  sea,  if  not  quite  as  blue 
as  a  poster  sea,  yet — ^as  already  stated — amazingly 
blue.  Josephus  lay  on  a  bit  of  hot  earth  watching 
him,  his  nose  between  his  forepaws,  and  quite 
exhausted  after  a  mad  and  wholly  objectless  ten 
minutes'  race  round  the  garden. 

Antony  ttirned  from  his  contemplation  of  the 
sea,  and  once  more  grasped  his  spade.  Presently 
he  turned  up  a  small  flat  round  object,  which  at 
first  sight  he  took  to  be  a  penny.  He  picked  it  up, 
and  rubbed  the  dirt  off  it.  It  proved  to  be  merely 
a  small  lead  disk,  utterly  useless  and  valueless; 
he  didn't  even  know  what  it  could  have  been  used 
for.  He  threw  it  on  the  earth  again,  and  went  on 
with  his  digging.  But  it,  or  his  action  of  tossing  it 
on  to  the  earth,  had  started  a  train  of  thought.  It 
is  extraordinary  what  trifles  will  serve  to  start  a 
lengthy  and  connected  train  of  thought.  Some- 
times it  is  quite  interesting,  arriving  at  a  certain 
point,  to  trace  one's  imaginings  backwards,  and 
see  from  whence  they  started. 

The  disk  reminded  Antony  of  the  coppers  he  had 
tossed  to  the  child  at  Teneriffe.  From  it  he  quite 
unconsciously  found  himself  reviewing  all  the 
subsequent  happenings.  They  Hnked  on  one  to 
the  other  without  a  break.  He  hardly  knew  he 
was  reviewing  them,  though  they  so  absorbed  his 
mind  that  he  was  totally  unconscious  of  his  sur- 
rotmdings,    and  even  of  the  fact  that  he  was 


AN  OFFER  AND  A  REFUSAL  229 

digging.     His  employment  had  become  quite  me- 
chanical. 

He  was  so  engrossed  that  he  did  not  hear  a  step 
in  the  road  behind  him.  Josephus  heard  it,  how- 
ever, and  gave  vent  to  a  faint  whine,  raising  his 
head  from  between  his  paws.  The  sound  roused 
Antony,  and  he  turned. 

His  face  went  suddenly  white  beneath  its 
bronze.  The  Duchessa  di  Donatello  was  standing 
at  the  gate,  looking  over  into  the  garden. 

"Might  I  come  in  and  rest  a  moment?"  she 
asked.     "The  sun  is  so  hot. " 

Antony  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  Surely 
he  could  not  have  heard  aright?  But  there  she 
was,  standing  at  the  gate,  most  evidently  waiting 
his  permission  to  enter. 

He  left  his  spade  sticking  in  the  earth,  and 
went  to  imfasten  the  gate.    Without  speaking,  ^ 
he  led  the  way  up  the  Httle  flagged  path,  and  into 
the  parlour. 

The  Duchessa  crossed  to  the  oak  settle  and  sat 
down.  Slowly  she  began  to  pull  off  her  long 
crinkly  doeskin  gloves.  Antony  watched  her. 
He  saw  the  gleam  of  a  diamond  ring  on  her  hand. 
It  was  a  ring  he  had  often  noticed.  A  picture  of 
the  Duchessa  sitting  at  a  little  round  table  among 
orange  trees  in  green  tubs  flashed  suddenly  and 
very  vividly  into  his  mind. 

"It  is  very  hot,"  said  the  Duchessa  looking 
up  at  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Antony  mechanically. 


230  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

"Am  I  interrupting  your  work?"  asked  the 
Duchessa. 

Antony  started. 

"Oh,  no, "  he  replied.  And  he  sat  down  by  the 
table,  leaning  slightly  forward  with  his  arms  upon 
it. 

"Do  you  mind  my  coming  here?"  she   asked. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Antony  reflectively. 

A  gleam  of  a  smile  flashed  across  the  Duchessa's 
face.    The  reply  was  so  Antonian. 

There  was  quite  a  long  silence.  Suddenly 
Antony  roused  himself. 

"You'll  let  me  get  you  some  tea,  Madam,"  he 
said. 

Awaiting  no  reply,  he  went  into  the  little 
scullery,  where  the  fire  by  which  he  had  cooked  his 
midday  meal  was  still  alight.  The  kettle  filled 
with  water  and  placed  on  the  stove,  he  stood 
by  it,  in  a  measure  wishful,  yet  oddly  reluctant 
to  rettim  to  the  parlour.  Reluctance  won  the 
day.    He  remained  by  the  kettle,  gazing  at  it. 

Left  alone,  the  Duchessa  looked  roimd  the 
parlour.  It  was  exceedingly  primitive,  yet,  to  her 
mind,  curiously  interesting.  Of  course  in  reality  it 
was  not  unlike  dozens  of  other  cottage  parlours,  but 
it  held  a  personality  of  its  own  for  her.  It  was  the 
room  where  Antony  Gray  lived. 

She  pictured  him  at  his  lonely  meals,  sitting  at 
the  table  where  he  had  sat  a  moment  or  so  agone; 
sitting  on  the  settle  where  she  was  now  sitting, 
certainly   smoking,    and    possibly    reading.     She 


AN  OFFER  AND  A  REFUSAL         231 

found  herself  wondering  what  he  thought  about. 
Did  he  ever  think  of  the  Fort  Salisbury,  she 
wondered?  Or  had  he  blotted  it  from  his  mind, 
as  she  had  endeavoured — ineffectually — to  do? 
And  then,  with  that  thought,  with  the  possibility 
that  he  had  done  so,  her  presence  in  the  room 
seemed  quite  suddenly  an  intrusion.  What  on 
earth  would  he  think  of  her  for  coming?  And 
what  on  earth  did  she  mean  to  say  to  him  now  she 
had  come? 

The  impulse  which  had  led  her  down  the  lane, 
which  had  caused  her  to  pause  at  the  gate  and 
speak  to  him,  all  at  once  seemed  to  her  perfectly 
idiotic,  and,  worse  still,  intrusive  and  impertinent. 
What  possible  excuse  was  she  going  to  give  for  it, 
in  the  face  of  her  behaviour  to  him  that  afternoon 
on  the  moorland  ?  Merely  to  have  asked  for  shelter 
on  account  of  the  heat,  appeared  to  her  now  as  the 
flimsiest  of  excuses,  and  would  appear  to  him 
as  an  excuse  simply  to  pry  upon  him,  to  see  his 
mode  of  living.  He  had  not  retiimed  to  the  par- 
lour. Doubtless  his  absence  was  a  silent  rebuke  to 
her.  She  had  thrust  the  necessity  of  hospitality 
upon  him,  but  he  intended  to  show  her  plainly 
that  it  was  entirely  of  necessity  he  had  offered  it. 

Her  cheeks  burned  at  the  thought.  She  looked 
quickly  roimd.  Anyhow  there  was  still  time  for 
flight.  She  picked  up  her  gloves  from  where  she 
had  laid  them  on  the  settle,  and  got  to  her  feet. 

"The  water  won't  be  long  in  boiling,  Madam," 
said  Antony's  voice. 


232  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

He  had  come  back  quietly  into  the  room.  For 
a  moment  he  glanced  in  half  surprise  to  see  the 
Duchessa  standing  by  the  settle.  Then  he 
crossed  to  the  dresser,  and  began  taking  down  a 
cup,  a  saucer,  and  a  plate. 

The  Duchessa  sat  down  again,  drawing  her  hand 
nervously  along  her  gloves. 

She  looked  at  him  getting  down  the  things  and 
setting  them  on  the  table.  She  watched  his  neat, 
deft  movements.  Antony  took  no  notice  of  her; 
she  might  have  been  part  of  the  settle  itself  for 
all  the  attention  he  paid  her.  His  preparations 
made,  he  returned  momentarily  to  the  scullery  to 
fill  the  teapot.  Coming  back  with  it  he  placed  it 
on  the  table. 

"Everything  is  ready,  Madam, "  he  said.  Dale 
himself  could  not  have  been  more  distantly 
respectful. 

The  Duchessa  looked  at  the  one  cup,  the  one 
saucer,  and  the  one  plate. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  have  some  tea,  too?"  she 
asked. 

"Servants  do  not  sit  down  with  their  superiors," 
said  Antony. 

The  colour  rose  hotly  in  the  Duchessa's  face. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  she  demanded. 

Antony  lifted  his  shoulders,  the  merest  sus- 
picion of  a  shrug. 

"I  merely  state  a  fact,"  he  replied. 

"I  wish  you  to, "  she  said  quickly. 

"Is  that  a  command?"  asked  Antony. 


AN  OFFER  AND  A  REFUSAL  233 

"If  you  like  to  take  it  so,"  she  replied. 

Antony  turned  to  the  dresser.  He  took  down 
another  cup  and  plate  and  put  them  on  the  table. 
Then  he  stood  by  it,  waiting  for  her  to  be  seated. 

"Sugar?"  asked  the  Duchessa.  She  was  mak- 
ing a  brave  endeavour  to  steady  the  trembling  of 
her  voice. 

"If  you  please,  Madam,"  said  Antony  gravely. 

The  meal  proceeded  in  dead  silence. 

"Mr.  Gray,"  said  the  Duchessa  suddenly. 

"My  name,"  said  Antony  respectftdly,  "is 
Michael  Field." 

The  Duchessa  gave  a  little  shaky  laugh. 

"Well,  Michael  Field,"  she  said.  "I  was  not 
very  kind  that  day  I  met  you  on  the  moorland.'* 

Antony  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  plate. 

"There  was  no  reason  that  you  should  be  kind, " 
he  repHed  quietly. 

"There  was,"  flashed  the  Duchessa. 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Antony,  calmly.  "La- 
dies in  your  position  are  under  no  obUgation  to 
be  kind  to  servants,  except  to  those  of  their  own 
household.  Even  then,  it  is  more  or  less  of  a 
condescension  on  their  part. " 

"You  were  not  always  a  servant,"  said  the 
Duchessa. 

There  was  the  fraction  of  a  pause. 

"I  did  not  happen  to  be  actually  in  a  situation 
when  I  was  on  the  Fort  Salisbury,  if  that  is  what 
you  mean,  Madam, "  returned  Antony. 

"I  mean  more  than  that,"  retorted  the  Duch- 


C34  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

essa,  "I  mean  that  by  your  up-bringing  you  are 
not  a  servant." 

Antony  laughed  shortly. 

"I  happen  to  have  had  a  better  education  than 
falls  to  the  lot  of  most  men  who  have  been  in  the 
positions  I  have  been  in,  and  who  are  in  positions 
like  my  present  one.  But  most  assuredly  I  am 
a  servant. " 

"What  positions  have  you  been  in?"  demanded 
the  Duchessa. 

A  very  faint  smile  showed  itself  on  Antony's 
face. 

"I  have  been  a  sort  of  miner's  boy, "  he  replied 
slowly.  "I  have  been  a  farm  hand,  mainly  used 
for  cleaning  out  pigsties,  and  that  kind  of  work. 
I  have  been  servant  in  a  gambling  saloon;  odd  man 
on  a  cattle  boat.  I  have  worked  on  a  farm  again. 
And  now  I  am  an  under-gardener.  Very  assuredly 
I  have  been,  and  am,  a  servant. " 

The  Duchessa's  brows  wrinkled.  "Yet  you 
speak  like  a  gentleman,  and — and  you  wore  dress 
clothes  as  if  you  were  used  to  them. " 

Again  a  faint  smile  showed  itself  on  Antony's 
face. 

"I  told  you  I  happen  to  have  had  a  decent 
education  in  my  youth.  Also,  I  would  suggest, 
that  even  butlers  and  waiters  wear  dress  clothes  as 
if  they  were  used  to  them. " 

Once  more  there  was  a  silence.  A  rather  long 
silence  this  time.  It  was  broken  by  the  Duchessa's 
voice. 


AN  OFFER  AND  A  REFUSAL  235 

"Some  months  ago,"  she  said,  "I  offered  my 
friendship  to  Antony  Gray;  I  now  offer  that  same 
friendship  to  Michael  Field. " 

Antony  gave  a  Uttle  laugh.  There  was  an  odd 
gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"Michael  Field  regrets  that  he  must  decline 
the  honour." 

The  Duchessa's  face  went  dead  white. 

Antony  got  to  his  feet. 

"Please  don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said. 
"I  fully  appreciate  the  honour  you  have  done  me, 
but — "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders — "it  is  quite 
impossible  to  accept  it.  It — you  must  see  that  for 
yourself — ^would  be  a  rather  ridiculous  situation. 
The  Duchessa  di  Donatello  and  a  friendship  with 
an  imder-gardener!  I  don't  fancy  either  of  us 
would  care  to  be  made  a  mock  of,  even  by  the 
extremely  small  world  in  which  we  happen  to  Uve. " 
He  stopped. 

The  Duchessa  rose  too.     Her  eyes  were  steely. 

"Thank  you  for  reminding  me, "  she  said.  "In 
a  moment  of  absurd  impiilsiveness  I  had  over- 
looked that  fact.  Also,  thank  you  for — ^for  your 
hospitality. " 

She  moved  to  the  door  without  looking  at  him. 
Antony  was  before  her,  and  had  it  open.  He 
followed  her  down  the  path  and  unfastened  the 
wicket  gate.  She  passed  through  it  without  turn- 
ing her  head,  and  walked  rather  deliberately  down 
the  lane. 

Antony  went  back  into   the  cottage.     For  a 


fi36  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

moment  he  stood  looking  at  the  table,  his  throat 
contracted.  Then  slowly,  and  with  oddly  unsee- 
ing eyes,  he  began  clearing  away  the  debris  of  the 
meal. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBUTHNOT 

Trix  was  sitting  in  a  summer-house  in  the 
garden  of  an  hotel  at  Llandrindod  Wells.  She 
was  reading  a  letter,  a  not  altogether  satisfactory 
letter  to  judge  by  the  wrinkling  of  her  brows, 
and  the  gravity  of  her  eyes. 

The  letter  was  from  the  Duchessa  di  Donatello, 
and  ran  as  follows: 

*'My  DEAR  Trix: 

' '  I  am  glad  you  had  a  comfortable  Journey,  and 
that  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  had  not  been  pining  for 
you  too  deeply.  It  is  a  pity  her  letters  gave  you 
the  impression  that  she  was  feeling  yoiu"  absence 
so  acutely.  Possibly  it  is  always  wiser  to  sub- 
tract at  least  half  of  the  impression  conveyed  in 
both  written  and  spoken  words.  Please  under- 
stand that  I  am  speaking  in  generaUties  when  I 
say  that  we  are  exceedingly  apt  to  exaggerate  our 
own  importance  to  others,  and  their  importance 
to  us. 

"Talking  of  exaggeration,  will  you  forget  our 
237 


238  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

conversation  on  your  last  evening  here?  I  exag- 
gerated my  own  trouble  and  its  cause.  Rather 
foolishly  I  let  your  remarks  influence  me,  and 
sought  an  explanation,  or  rather,  attempted  to 
ignore  appearances,  and  return  to  the  old  footing. 
The  result  being  that  not  only  did  I  find  that  there 
was  no  explanation  to  be  given,  but  that  I  got  rather 
badly  snubbed.  As  you,  of  coiu-se,  will  know  who 
administered  the  snub,  you  can  imderstand  that  it 
was  peculiarly  unpleasant.  I  had  endeavoured  to 
ignore  the  fact  that  he  was  my  social  inferior,  but 
he  reminded  me  of  it  in  a  way  it  was  impossible  to 
overlook,  and  showed  me  that  he  deeply  resented 
what  he  evidently  looked  upon  as  a  somewhat 
impertinent  condescension  on  my  part. 

"The  theories,  my  dear  Trix,  which  you  set  forth 
in  the  moonlight  under  the  lime  trees,  simply  won't 
hold  water.  For  your  own  sake  I  advise  you  to 
abandon  them  forthwith.  Blood  will  always  tell; 
and  sooner  or  later,  if  we  attempt  intimacy  with 
those  not  of  oiu"  own  station  in  life,  we  shall  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  hairy  hoof.  I  know  the  theories 
sound  all  right,  and  quite  beautifully  Christian — 
as  set  forth  in  the  moonlight, — ^but  they  don't 
work  in  this  twentieth  century,  as  I  have  found  to 
my  cost.  You  had  better  make  up  your  mind 
to  that  fact  before  you,  too,  get  a  slap  in  the  face. 
I  assure  you  you  don't  feel  like  turning  the  other 
cheek.  However,  that  will  do.  But  as  it  was 
mainly  through  following  out  your  theories  and 
advice  that  I  found  my  pride  not  only  in  the  mud, 


LETTERS  AND  MRS,  ARBUTHNOT     239 

but  rubbed  rather  heavily  in  it,  I  thought  you 
might  as  well  have  a  word  of  warning.  Please 
now  consider  the  matter  closed,  and  never  make 
the  smallest  reference  to  that  rather  idiotic  con- 
versation. 

"Doctor  Hilary  was  over  here  again  yesterday. 
He  enquired  after  you,  and  asked  to  be  very 
kindly  remembered  to  you.  I  should  like  Doctor 
Hilary  to  attend  me  in  any  illness.  He  gives  one 
such  a  feeling  of  strength  and  reliance.  There's 
absolutely  no  humbug  about  him. 

"Much  love,  my  dear  Trix, 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"PlA  DI  DONATELLO." 

Trix  read  the  letter  through  very  carefully,  and 
then  dropped  it  on  her  lap. 

"It  wasn't  Doctor  Hilary!"  she  ejaculated. 
"So  who  on  earth  was  it?" 

She  sat  gazing  through  the  opening  of  the 
summer-house  towards  the  garden.  It  was  the 
oddest  puzzle  she  had  ever  encountered.  Who  on 
earth  could  it  have  been?  And  why — since  it 
wasn't  Doctor  Hilary — had  Pia  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  she — ^Trix — knew  who  it  was? 

It  wasn't  Mr.  Danver,  that  was  very  certain. 
"Social  inferior"  put  that  fact  out  of  the  question. 
But  then,  what  social  inferior  had  been  mixed  up 
in  the  business?  Or — Trix's  brain  leapt  from 
point  to  point — had  Pia's  trouble  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  the  mad  business  at  the  Hall?    Had  she 


240  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

and  Pia  simply  been  playing  a  quite  amazing  game 
of  cross-purposes  that  evening?  It  would  seem 
that  must  have  been  the  case.  Yet  the  recogni- 
tion of  that  fact  didn't  bring  her  in  the  sm.allest 
degree  nearer  the  solution  of  the  riddle.  Again, 
who  on  earth  was  it?  What  social  inferior  was 
there,  could  there  possibly  be,  at  Woodleigh,  to 
cause  Pia  a  moment's  trouble?  Every  precon- 
ceived notion  on  Trix's  part,  including  the  colour 
of  the  soap-bubble,  vanished  into  thin  air,  and  left 
her  contemplating  an  inexplicable  mystery. 

\Whatever  it  was,  it  had  affected  Pia  pretty 
deeply.  It  was  absurd  for  her  to  say  the  incident 
was  closed.  Externally  it  might  be,  in  the  matter 
of  not  referring  to  it  again.  Interiorly  it  had  left 
a  wound,  and  one  which  was  very  far  from  being 
easily  healed,  to  judge  by  Pia's  letter.  It  had  not 
been  written  by  Pia  at  all,  but  by  a  very  bitter 
woman,  who  had  merely  a  superficial  likeness  to 
Pia.  That  fact,  and  that  fact  alone,  caused  Trix 
to  imagine  that  she  had  been  right  when  she  told 
Tibby — if  not  in  so  many  words,  at  least  virtually 
speaking — that  love  had  come  into  Pia's  life. 
Love  embittered  alone  could  have  inflicted  the 
wound  she  felt  Pia  to  be  enduring.  And  yet  the 
wording  of  her  letter  would  appear  to  put  that 
surmise  out  of  the  question.  Truly  it  was  an 
insolvable  riddle. 

Once  more  she  re-read  the  letter,  but  it  didn't 
help  her  in  the  smallest  degree.  There  was  only 
one   small   ounce    of   comfort   in   it.     It    wasn't 


LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBVTHNOT     241 

Doctor  Hilary  who  had  caused  the  wound.  Pia 
had  merely  tried  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him,  as  she 
had  frequently  tried  to  pick  one  with  herself  and 
Tibby,  because  she  was  unhappy.  If  only  Trix 
knew  what  had  caused  the  imhappiness.  And 
Pia  thought  she  did  know.  If  she  wrote  and  told 
her  now  that  she  hadn't  the  smallest  conception  of 
what  she  was  talking  about,  it  would  in  all  pro- 
bability rouse  conjectures  in  Pia's  mind  as  to  what 
Trix  had  thought.  That,  having  in  view  her 
promise,  had  certainly  better  be  avoided. 

Should  she,  then,  ignore  Pia's  letter,  or  should 
she  reply  to  it?  She  weighed  the  pros  and  cons 
of  this  question  for  the  next  ten  minutes,  and 
finally  decided  she  would  write,  and  at  once. 

Returning,  therefore,  to  the  hotel,  she  indited 
the  following  brief  missive: 

"My  DEAR  Pia, — 

"The  incident  is  closed  so  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
But  I  don't  mean  to  give  up  seeking  my  pot  of  gold 
at  the  end  of  the  rainbow.  I  dare  say  most  people 
would  call  it  an  imaginary  quest.  Well  then,  I  like 
an  imaginary  quest.  It  helps  to  make  me  forget 
much  that  is  prosaic,  and  a  good  deal  that  is  sordid 
in  this  work-a-day  world. 

"Please  remember  me  to' Doctor  Hilary  when 
you  see  him.    Best  love,  Pia  darling, 

"Trix." 

Three  days  later  Pia  wrote: 
16 


242  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

**My  dear  Trix, 

*'The  rainbow  vanishes,  and  the  sordidness  and 

the  prosaicness  become  rather  horribly  apparent, 

especially  when  one  finds  oneself  obliged  to  look  at 

them  after  having  steadily  ignored  their  existence. 

*'Yoiirs  affectionately, 

To  which  Trix  replied: 

"My  dear  Pia, 

"My  rainbow  shines  after  every  shower,  and  is 
brightest  against  the  darkest  clouds.  When  I  look 
towards  the  darkest  clouds  I  wait  for  the  rainbow. 

"Yours, 

"Trix." 

And  Pia  wrote: 

"My  dear  Trix, 

"What  happens  when  there  is  no  longer  any 
sun  to  form  a  rainbow? 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"Pia." 

And  Trix  wrote: 

"Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by,  Jenny,  wait  till 
the  clouds  roll  by. " 

And  Pia  wrote: 


LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBVTHNOT     243 

"My  dear  Trix, 

"Some  people  wait  a  lifetime  in  vain. 

"Yours  affectionately,"^ 

"PlA.'* 

And  Trix  wrote: 

"Darling  Pia, 

' '  You're  twenty-eight.    Trix." 

After  which  there  was  a  cessation  of  correspond- 
ence for  a  time,  neither  having  anything  further  to 
say  on  the  subject,  or  at  all  events,  nothing  further 
they  felt  disposed  to  set  down  in  writing. 

Trix  spent  her  mornings,  and  the  afternoons, 
till  tea  time,  in  her  Aunt's  company.  After  that, 
Mrs.  Arbuthnot  being  engrossed  in  Bridge  till 
bedtime,  Trix  was  free  to  do  exactly  as  she  Hked. 
What  she  liked  was  walking  till  it  was  time  to 
dress  for  dinner,  and  spending  the  evenings  in  the 
garden. 

Even  before  her  father's  death,  Trix  had  stayed 
frequently  with  her  atmt.  Her  mother  had 
died  when  Trix  was  three  years  old  and  Mrs. 
Arbuthnot,  a  widow  with  no  children  of  her  own, 
would  have  been  quite  ready  to  adopt  Trix.  But 
neither  Mr.  Devereux,  nor,  for  that  matter,  Trix 
herself,  were  in  the  least  disposed  to  fall  in  with 
her  plans.  Trix  was  merely  lent  to  her  for  fairly 
lengthy  periods,  and  it  had  been  during  one  of 
these  periods  that  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  had  taken  her 


244  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

to  a  larm  near  Byestry,  in  which  place  Mr.  Dever- 
eux  had  spent  most  of  his  early  years. 

In  those  days  Mrs.  Arbuthnot's  one  hobby  had 
been  photography.  People  used  to  say,  of  course 
unjustly,  that  she  never  beheld  any  view  with  the 
naked  eye,  but  merely  in  the  reflector  of  a  photo- 
graphic apparatus.  Yet  it  is  entirely  obvious 
that  she  must  first  have  regarded  it  in  the  ordinary 
way  to  judge  of  its  photographic  merits.  Anyhow 
it  is  true  that  quite  a  good  deal  of  her  time  was 
spent  beneath  the  folds  of  a  black  cloth  (she  never 
condescended  to  anything  so  amatetuish  as  a  mere 
kodak),  or  in  the  seclusion  of  a  dark  room. 

Veritable  dark  rooms  being  seldom  procurable 
on  her  travels,  she  invariably  carried  with  her  two 
or  three  curtains  of  thick  red  serge,  several  rolls  of 
brown  paper,  and  a  bottle  of  stickphast.  The  two 
last  mentioned  were  employed  for  covering  chinks 
in  doors,  etc.  It  cannot  be  said  that  it  was  entirely 
beneficial  to  the  doors,  but  hotel  proprietors  and 
landladies  seldom  made  any  complaint  after  the 
first  remonstrance,  as  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  was  always 
ready  to  make  handsome  compensation  for  any 
damage  caused.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  at  times 
her  generosity  was  largely  imposed  upon. 

In  addition  to  the  red  curtains,  the  brown  paper, 
and  the  stickphast,  two  large  boxes  were  included 
in  her  luggage,  one  containing  all  her  photographic 
necessaries,  and  they  were  not  few,  the  other 
containing  several  dozen  albums  of  prints. 

Of  late  years  Bridge  had  taken  quite  as  large 


LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBUTHNOT     245 

a  place  in  her  affections  as  photography.  Not  that 
she  felt  any  rivalry  between  the  two;  her  pleasure 
in  both  pastimes  was  quite  equally  balanced.  Her 
mornings  and  early  afternoons  were  given  to  photo- 
graphy. The  late  afternoons  and  evenings  Mrs. 
Arbuthnot  devoted  to  Bridge. 

One  exceedingly  wet  afternoon,  tea  being  re- 
cently concluded,  Trix  in  her  bedroom  was  survey- 
ing the  weather  from  the  window. 
'  She  was  debating  within  her  mind  whether  to 
don  mackintosh  and  souwester  and  face  the  ele- 
ments, or  whether  to  retire  to  a  far  comer  of  the 
drawing-room  with  a  novel,  as  much  as  possible 
out  of  earshot  of  the  Bridge  players.  She  was 
still  in  two  minds  as  to  which  prospect  most 
appealed  to  her  mood,  when  Mrs.  Arbuthnot 
tapped  on  her  door,  and  immediately  after  sailed 
into  the  room.  It  is  the  only  word  applicable  to 
Mrs.  Arbuthnot 's  entry  into  any  room. 

She  was  a  large  fair  woman,  very  distinctly 
inclined  to  stoutness.  In  her  youth  she  had  been 
both  slender,  and  quick  in  her  movements;  but 
recognizing,  and  rightly,  that  quickness  means  a 
certain  loss  of  dignity  in  the  stout,  she  had  trained 
herself  to  be  exceedingly  deUberate  in  her  actions. 
There  was  an  element  of  consciousness  in  her 
deliberation,  therefore,  which  gave  the  impression 
of  a  rather  large  sailing  vessel  imder  weigh. 

"Trix,  dearest, "  she  began.  And  then  she  per- 
ceived that  Trix  had  been  observing  the  weather. 


246  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

*' You  were  not  going  out,  were  you,  dearest?  I 
really  think  it  would  hardly  be  wise.  It  is  blowing 
quite  furiously.  I  know  it  is  rather  dull  for  you  as 
you  don't  play  Bridge.  Such  a  pity,  too,  as  you 
understand  it  so  well.  But  I  have  a  suggestion 
to  make.  Will  you  paste  some  of  my  newest 
prints  into  the  latest  albimi?  There  is  a  table  in 
the  window  in  my  room,  and  a  fresh  bottle  of  stick- 
phast.  Not  in  the  window,  I  don't  mean  that, 
but  in  my  trunk.  And  Maunder  can  find  it  for 
you."     Maimder  was  Mrs.  Arbuthnot's  maid. 

Trix  turned  from  the  window.  Of  course  Mrs. 
Arbuthnot's  request  settled  the  question  of  a  walk. 
She  had  really  been  in  two  minds  about  it. 

"Why,  of  coiu-se, "  she  said.  "Where  are  the 
prints?" 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  brightened  visibly. 

"They're  inside  a  green  envelope  on  the  writing- 
table.  You'll  find  a  small  pair  of  very  sharp  scis- 
sors there  too.  The  dark  edges  are  so  unsightly  if 
not  trimmed.  You're  sure  you  don't  mind,  dear- 
est ?  It  really  will  be  quite  a  pleasant  occupation. 
It  is  so  dreadfully  wet.  And  Maunder  will  give 
you  the  stickphast.  There  is  clean  blotting-paper 
on  the  writing-table  too,  and  Maunder  can  find 
you  anything  else  you  want.  Well,  that's  all 
right.  Maunder  is  in  my  room  now.  She  will  be 
going  to  her  tea  in  ten  minutes,  so  perhaps  you 
might  go  to  her  at  once.  And  she  is  sure  to  be 
downstairs  for  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half,  if  not 
longer.     Servants  always  have  so  much  to  talk 


LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBUTHNOT     247 

about,  and  take  so  long  saying  it.  Why,  I  can't 
imagine.  It  always  seems  to  me  so  much  better 
not  to  waste  words  unnecessarily.  So  you  will 
have  the  room  to  yourself,  till  she  comes  to  put  out 
my  evening  things.  And  I  must  go  back  to  the 
drawing-room  at  once,  or  they  will  be  waiting 
Bridge  for  me.  And  Lady  Fortescue  hates  being 
kept  waiting.  It  puts  her  in  a  bad  temper,  and 
when  she's  in  a  bad  temper  she  is  extraordinarily 
erratic  as  to  her  declarations.  Though,  for  that 
matter,  she  is  seldom  anything  else.  I  don't 
mean  bad-tempered,  but  seldom  anything  but 
erratic.  So,  dearest,  I  mustn't  let  you  keep  me 
any  longer.  Don't  forget  to  ask  Maunder  for 
the  stickphast,  and  anything  else  you  want.  And 
the  prints  and  the  scissors " 

"Yes,  I  know, "  nodded  Trix  cheerfully,  *'on  the 
writing  table.  Hurry,  Aunt  Lilla,  or  they'll  all  be 
swearing." 

"Oh,  my  dearest,  I  trust  not.  Though  perhaps 
interiorly.  And  even  that  is  a  sin.  I  remem- 
ber  " 

Trix  propelled  her  gently  but  firmly  from  the 
room.  Doubtless  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  continued  her 
remembrances  "interiorly"  as  she  went  down  the 
passage  and  descended  the  stairs. 

Ten  minutes  later,  Trix,  provided  with  the 
stickphast,  the  green  envelope,  the  scissors,  and  the 
clean  blotting-paper,  and  having  a  very  large 
album  spread  open  before  her  on  a  table,  was 
busily    engaged    with    the    prints.     They    were 


248  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

mainly  views  of  Llandrindod  Wells,  though  there 
were  quite  a  good  many  groups  among  them,  as 
well  as  a  fair  number  of  single  figures.  Trix 
herself  appeared  chiefly  in  these  last, — ^Trix  in  a 
hat,  Trix  without  a  hat,  Trix  smiling,  serious, 
standing,  or  sitting. 

For  half  an  hour  or  so  Trix  worked  industri- 
ously, indefatigably.  She  trimmed  off  dark  edges, 
she  appHed  stickphast,  she  adjusted  the  prints  in 
careful  positions,  she  smoothed  them  down  neatly 
with  the  clean  blotting-paper.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,  she  paused  to  let  the  paste  dry  somewhat 
before  turning  the  page. 

With  a  view  to  whiling  away  the  interval,  she 
possessed  herself  of  a  sister  album,  one  of  the  many 
relations  stacked  against  a  wall,  choosing  it  hap- 
hazard from  among  the  number. 

There  is  a  distinct  fascination  in  photographs 
which  recall  early  memories.  Trix  fell  promptly 
under  the  spell  of  this  fascination.  The  minutes 
passed,  finding  her  engrossed,  absorbed.  Tiuning 
a  page  she  came  upon  views  of  Byestry,  herself — a 
white-robed,  short-skirted  small  person — appearing 
in  the  foreground  of  many. 

Trix  smiled  at  the  representations.  It  really 
was  rather  an  adorable  small  person.  It  was  so 
slim-legged,  mop-haired,  and  elfin-smiled.  It  was 
seen,  for  the  most  part,  lavishing  blandishments 
on  a  somewhat  ungainly  puppy.  One  photograph, 
however,  represented  the  small  person  in  company 
with  a  boy. 


LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBUTHNOT     249 

Trix  looked  at  this  photograph,  and  suddenly 
amazement  fell  full  upon  her.  She  looked,  she 
leant  back  in  her  chair  and  shut  her  eyes,  and  then 
she  looked  again.  Yes;  there  was  no  mistake,  no 
shadow  of  a  mistake.  The  boy  in  the  photograph 
was  the  man  with  the  wheelbarrow,  or  the  other 
way  about,  which  possibly  might  be  the  more 
correct  method  of  expressing  the  matter.  But, 
whichever  the  method,  the  fact  remained  the 
same. 

Trix  stared  harder  at  the  photograph,  cogitat- 
ing, bewildered.  Below  it  was  written  in  Mrs 
Arbuthnot's  rather  sprawling  handwriting,  "T.  D., 
aged  five.     A.  G.,  aged  fourteen.    Byestry,  1892." 

Who  on  earth  was  A.  G?  Trix  searched  the 
recesses  of  her  mind.  And  then  suddenly,  welling 
up  like  a  bubbling  spring,  came  memory.  Why,  of 
course  A.  G.  was  the  boy  she  used  to  play  with,  the 
boy — she  began  to  remember  things  clearly  now — 
who  had  tried  to  sail  across  the  pond,  and  with 
whom  she  had  gone  to  search  for  pheasants'  eggs. 
A  dozen  little  details  came  back  to  her  mind,  even 
the  sound  of  the  boy's  voice,  and  his  laugh,  a  curi- 
ously infectious  laugh. 

Oh,  she  remembered  him  distinctly,  vividly. 
But,  what — and  there  lay  the  puzzlement,  the 
bewilderment — ^was  the  boy,  now  grown  to  man- 
hood, doing  with  a  wheelbarrow  in  the  grounds  of 
Chorley  Old  Hall,  and,  moreover,  dressed  as  a 
gardener,  working  as  a  gardener,  and  speaking — 
well,  at  any  rate  speaking  after  the  manner  of  a 


250  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

gardener?  Perhaps  to  have  said,  speaking  as 
though  he  were  on  a  different  social  footing  from 
Trix,  would  have  better  expressed  Trix's  meaning. 
But  she  chose  her  own  phraseology,  and  doubt- 
less it  conveyed  to  her  exactly  what  she  did 
mean.  Anyhow,  it  was  an  amazing  riddle,  an 
insoluble  riddle.  Trix  stared  at  the  photograph, 
finding  no  answer  to  it. 

Finding  no  answer  she  left  the  book  open  at 
the  page,  and  returned  to  the  sticking  in  of  prints. 
But  every  now  and  then  her  eyes  wandered  to  the 
big  volume  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  wonder- 
ment and  query  possessing  her  soul. 

Maunder  appeared  just  as  Trix  had  finished 
her  task.  Helpful,  business-like,  she  approached 
the  table,  a  gleam  spelling  order  and  tidiness  in  her 
eye. 

"Leave  that  album,  please,"  said  Trix,  seeing 
the  helpfiil  Maunder  about  to  shut  and  bear  away 
the  book  containing  the  boy's  photograph. 

Maunder  hesitated,  sighed  conspicuously,  and 
left  the  book,  occupying  herself  instead  with 
putting  away  the  stickphast,  the  scissors,  the  now 
not  as  clean  blotting-paper,  and  somewhat  resign- 
edly picking  up  small  shreds  of  paper  which  were 
scattered  upon  the  table-cloth  and  carpet.  In  the 
midst  of  these  occupations  the  dressing-gong 
sounded.  Maunder  pricked  up  her  ears,  actually 
almost,  as  well  as  figuratively. 

Ten  minutes  elapsed.  Then  Mrs."  Arbuthnot 
appeared. 


LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBUTHNOT     251 

"What,  finished,  dearest!"  she  exclaimed  as  she 
opened  the  door.  * '  Splendid !  How  quick  you've 
been.  And  I  am  sure  the  time  flew  on — ^not  leaden 
feet,  but  just  the  opposite.  It  always  does  when 
one  is  pleasantly  occupied.  Developing  photo- 
graphs or  a  rubber  of  Bridge,  it's  just  the  same, 
the  hands  of  the  clock  spin  round.  And  I've  won 
six  shillings,  and  it  would  have  been  more  if  it 
had  not  been  for  Lady  Fortescue's  last  declaration. 
Four  hearts,  my  dearest,  and  the  knave  as  her 
highest  card.  They  doubled  us,  and  of  course 
we  went  down.  I  had  only  two  small  ones.  I  had 
shown  her  my  own  weakness  by  not  supporting  her 
declaration.  Of  course  at  my  first  lead  I  led  her  a 
heart,  and  it  was  won  by  the  queen  on  my  left. 
A  heart  was  returned,  and  Lady  Fortescue  played 
the  nine.  It  was  covered  by  the  ten  which  won  the 
trick.  She  didn't  make  a  single  trick  in  her  own 
suit.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  understand  Lady 
Fortescue's  declarations.  And  did  you  put  in  all 
the  prints?  They  will  have  nearly  filled  the  last 
pages.  I  must  send  for  another  album.  Are  these 
they?"  She  crossed  to  the  open  volume. 

"No,"  said  Trix,  "that's  an  old  volume.  I 
was  looking  at  it.  Who's  the  boy  in  the  photo- 
graph, Aunt  Lilla?" 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  bent  towards  the  page. 

" '  A.  G.,  aged  fourteen.*  Let  me  see.  Why,  of 
course  that  was  Antony  Gray,  Richard  Gray's  son. 
But  I  never  knew  his  father.  He — I  mean  the 
boy — was  staying  in  rooms  with  his  aimt,  Mrs. 


252  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Stanley.  She  was  his  father's  sister,  and  married 
George  Stanley.  Something  to  do  with  the  stock 
exchange,  and  quite  a  wealthy  man,  though  a  bad 
temper.  And  his  wife  was  not  a  happy  woman, 
as  you  can  guess.  Temper  means  such  endless 
friction  when  it's  bad,  especially  with  regard  to 
things  like  interfering  with  the  servants,  and  want- 
ing to  order  the  kitchen  dinner.  So  absurd,  as  well 
as  annoying.  There's  a  place  for  a  man  and  a  place 
for  a  woman,  and  the  man's  place  is  not  the 
kitchen,  even  if  his  entry  is  only  figurative.  By 
which  I  mean  that  Mr.  Stanley  did  not  actually  go 
to  the  kitchen,  but  gave  orders  from  his  study,  on 
a '  sort  of  telephone  business  he  had  had  fixed  up 
and  communicating  with  the  kitchen.  So  trying 
for  the  cook's  nerves,  especially  when  making 
omelettes,  or  anything  that  required  particular 
attention.  She  never  knew  when  his  voice 
wouldn't  shout  at  her  from  the  wall.  A  small 
black  thing  like  a  hollow  handle  fixed  close  to  the 
kitchen  range.  Quite  uncomfortably  near  her 
ear.  Worse  than  if  he  himself  had  appeared  at  the 
kitchen  door,  which  would  have  been  normal, 
though  trying.  And  Mr.  Stanley  never  lowered 
his  voice.  He  always  spoke  as  if  one  were  deaf, 
especially  to  foreigners  who  spoke  English  every 
bit  as  well  as  himself.  Mrs.  Stanley  gave  excellent 
wages,  and  even  bonuses  out  of  her  dress  money  to 
try  and  keep  cooks.  But  they  all  said  the  voice 
from  the  wall  got  on  their  nerves.  And  no  won- 
der.    And  then   unpleasantness  when   the  cooks 


LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBUTHNOT     253 

left.  As  if  it  were  poor  Mrs.  Stanley's  fault,  and 
not  his  own.  She  once  suggested  they  should  give 
up  their  house  and  live  in  an  hotel.  He  couldn't 
have  a  telephone  arrangement  to  the  kitchen 
there.  But  he  was  more  unpleasant  still.  Almost 
violent.  And  he  died  at  last  of  an  attack  of 
apoplexy.  Such  a  relief  to  Mrs.  Stanley.  Not  the 
dying  of  apoplexy,  which  was  a  grief.  But  the 
quiet,  and  the  being  able  to  keep  a  cook  when  he 
had  gone. "  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  paused  a  moment  to 
take  breath. 

"Do  you  know  what  became  of  the  boy?"  asked 
Trix. 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  considered  for  an  instant. 

"I  believe  he  went  abroad.  Yes;  I  remember 
now,  hearing  from  Mrs.  Stanley  just  before  she  died 
herself,  poor  soul — ptomaine  poisoning  and  a  dirty 
cook,  some  people  seem  pursued  by  cooks,  figura- 
tively speaking,  of  course, — that  her  brother  had 
lost  all  his  money  and  died,  and  that  Antony 
had  gone  abroad.  We  are  told  not  to  judge,  and 
I  don't,  but  it  did  seem  to  me  that  Mrs.  Stanley , 
ought  to  have  made  him  some  provision,  if  not 
before  her  death,  at  least  after  it.  By  will,  of 
course  I  mean  by  'after'  1  which  in  a  sense  would 
have  been  before  death.  But  you  understand. 
Instead  of  which  she  left  all  her  money  to  a  deaf 
and  dumb  asylum.  No  doubt  good  in  its  way,  but 
not  like  anything  religious,  which  would  have 
been  more  justifiable,  though  she  was  a  Protestant. 
And  teaching  dumb  people  to  speak  is  always  a 


254  ANTONY  GRAY -GARDENER 

doubtful  blessing.  They  have  such  an  odd  way  of 
talking.  Scarcely  understandable.  But  perhaps 
better  than  nothing  for  themselves,  though 
not  for  others.  Though  with  a  penniless  nephew 
and  all  that  money  I  do  think — But,  as  I  said,  we 
are  told  not  to  judge. " 

"And  you  don't  know  what  became  of  him  after 
that?"  asked  Trix. 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  looked  almost  reproachful. 

"My  dearest,  how  could  I?  Mrs.  Stanley  in  the 
family  grave  with  her  brother, — she  mentioned 
that  particularly  in  her  will,  and  not  with  her 
husband,  I  suppose  she  could  not  have  had  much 
affection  for  him, — I  could  not  possibly  hear  any 
more  of  the  yoimg  man.  There  were  no  other 
relations,  and  I  did  not  even  know  what  part 
of  the  world  he  was  in.  Nor  should  I  have 
thought  it  advisable  to  write  to  him  if  I  had, 
unless  it  had  been  a  brief  letter  of  consolation  as 
from  a  much  older  woman,  which  I  was.  But  even 
with  age  I  do  not  think  a  correspondence  between 
men  and  women  desirable,  unless  they  are  related, 
especially  with  Mrs.  Barclay's  novels  so  widely 
read.  Not  for  my  own  sake,  of  course,  as  I  do 
not  think  I  am  easily  given  to  absurd  notions. 
But  one  never  knows  what  ideas  a  young  man 
may  not  get  into  his  head.  And  now,  dear  child, 
I  must  dress.  Maunder  has  been  sighing  for 
the  last  ten  minutes,  and  I  know  what  that 
means.  And  you'll  be  late  yourself,  if  you  don't 
go." 


LETTERS  AND  MRS.  ARBUTHNOT     255 

Much  later  in  the  evening,  Trix,  in  a  far  corner 
of  the  drawing-room  with  a  novel,  found  herself 
again  pondering  deeply  on  her  discovery. 

She  was  absolutely  and  entirely  certain  that 
the  man  with  the  wheelbarrow  was  none  other  than 
Antony  Gray,  the  boy  with  whom  she  had  played 
in  her  childhood.  She  remembered  now  that  his 
face  had  been  oddly  familiar  to  her  at  the  time, 
though,  being  unable  to  put  any  name  to  him,  she 
had  looked  upon  it  merely  as  a  chance  likeness. 
But  since  he  was  Antony  Gray,  what  was  he  doing 
at  Chorley  Old  Hall? 

Her  first  impulse  had  been  to  write  to  the 
Duchessa,  tell  her  of  her  certainty,  and  ask  her  to 
find  out  any  particulars  she  could  regarding  the 
man.  She  had  abandoned  that  idea,  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  she  would  have  to  say  where  she  had 
met  him,  which  would  very  probably  lead  to 
questions  difficult  to  answer. 

One  thing  she  would  do,  however,  and  she  gave 
a  little  inward  laugh  at  the  thought,  when  she  was 
next  at  Byestry,  if  she  saw  him  again,  she  would 
ask  him  if  he  remembered  the  pond  and  the 
pheasants'  eggs.  It  would  be  amusing  to  see 
his  amazed  face. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

FOR  THE  DAY  ALONE 

Probably  there  are  times  in  the  life  of  every 
human  being,  when  the  only  possible  method  of 
living  at  all,  would  seem  to  be  by  living  in  the 
day — nay,  in  the  moment — alone,  resolutely  shut- 
ting one's  eyes  to  the  mistakes  behind  one,  refusing 
to  look  at  the  blankness  ahead.  And  this  is  more 
especially  the  case  when  the  mistakes  and  the 
blankness  have  been  caused  by  our  own  actions. 
There  is  not  even  stolid  philosophy  to  come 
to  our  aid,  a  shrugging  of  the  shoulders,  a  foisting 
of  the  blame  on  to  fate.  It  may  be  that  the 
majority  of  the  incidents  have  been  forced  upon  us, 
that  we  have  not  been  free  agents  in  the  matter, 
but  if  we  must  of  honesty  say, — Here  or  there  was 
the  mistake  which  led  to  them,  and  I  made  that 
mistake  of  my  own  free  will, — ^we  cannot  turn  to 
philosophy  regarding  fate  for  our  comfort. 

To  Antony's  mind  he  had  made  a  big  mistake. 
Fate  had  been  responsible  for  his  receipt  of  that 
letter,  it  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  himself;  he 
might  even  consider  that,  having  received  it,  fate 

256 


FOR  THE  DAY  ALONE  257 

was  largely  responsible  for  his  journey  to  England 
and  his  meeting  with  the  Duchessa,  but  he  could 
not  possibly  accuse  fate  of  his  acceptance  of  those 
mad  conditions  attached  to  the  will.  He  had  been 
an  entirely  free  agent  so  far  as  they  were  con- 
cerned; they  had  been  put  before  him  for  him  to 
accept  or  reject  them  as  he  chose,  and  he  had 
accepted  them.  It  had  been  a  huge  blunder  on 
his  part,  and  one  for  which  he  alone  had  been 
responsible. 

Of  course  he  might  quite  justly  declare  that 
he  could  not  possibly  have  foreseen  all  the  other 
moves  fate  had  up  her  sleeve;  but  then  no  Hving 
being  could  have  foreseen  them.  Fate  never  does 
show  her  subsequent  moves.  She  puts  decisions 
before  us  in  such  a  way,  that  she  leaves  us  to 
imagine  we  can  shape  our  succeeding  actions  to  our 
own  mind  and  according  to  the  decision  made. 
She  leaves  us  to  imagine  it  is  simply  a  question 
whether  we  will  reach  our  goal  by  a  road  bearing 
slightly  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  by  a  road  which 
may  take  a  long  time  to  traverse  and  be  a  fairly 
smooth  road,  or  a  road  which  will  take  a  short 
time  to  traverse  and  be  a  rough  one.  Or,  even,  as 
in  Antony's  case,  she  will  leave  us  to  imagine  there 
is  one  route  and^one  route  only  by  which  we  may 
reach  our  goal.  And  then,  whatever  our  choice, 
she  may  suddenly  plant  a  huge  barrier  across  the 
path,  labelled, — No  thoroughfare  to  your  goal  in 
this  direction. 

Sometimes  it  is  possible  to  defy  fate,  retrace 
17 


258  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

our  steps,  and  start  anew  towards  the  goal.  Occa- 
sionally we  will  find  that  we  have  burnt  our  bridges 
behind  us ;  we  are  up  against  an  obstacle,  and  there 
we  are  bound  to  remain  helpless.  And  here  fate 
appears  at  her  worst  trickery. 

And  even  supposing  we  are  minded  to  call  it 
not  fate,  but  Providence,  who  does  these  things, 
it  will  be  of  remarkably  little  comfort  to  us  when 
we  are  aware  of  our  own  blunders  in  the  back- 
ground. 

A  hundred  times  Antony  reviewed  the  past;  a 
hundred  times  he  blamed  himself  for  the  part  he 
had  chosen.  It  is  true  that,  so  far  as  he  could  see, 
none  other  would  have  had  the  smallest  chance  of 
leading  him  to  his  desired  goal,  yet  any  other 
could  not  have  raised  the  enormous  barrier  he  now 
saw  before  him. 

He  had  angered  her :  she  despised  him. 

To  his  mind  nothing,  no  subsequent  happening, 
could  alter  that  fact.  There  was  the  thought  he 
had  to  face,  and  behind  him  lay  his  own  irredeem- 
able blunder. 

Well,  the  only  thing  now  left  for  him  was  to 
live  his  life  as  it  was,  minus  one  spark  of  brightness. 
Certainly  he  didn't  feel  like  singing,  but  whining 
was  no  earthly  good.  And  since  he  could  not 
sing,  and  would  not  whine,  silence  alone  was  left 
him.  He  would  work  as  best  he  could  till  the  year 
was  out.  He  had  no  intenton  of  going  back  on  his 
bargain,  despite  the  uselessness  of  it.  At  the  end 
of  the  year,  the  Hall  being  his  own  property,  he 


FOR  THE  DAY  ALONE  259 

would  sell  the  place,  and  travel.  Perhaps  he  would 
go  off  shooting  big  game,  or  perhaps  he  would  go 
round  the  world.  It  did  not  much  matter  which, 
so  long  as  it  prevented  him  from  whining. 

And  quite  possibly,  though  he  would  never  have 
any  heart  for  singing,  the  day  might  come  when  he 
would  again  be  able  to  whistle. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IN  THE  CHURCH  PORCH 

It  was  somewhere  about  the  second  week  in 
December  that  Trix  became  the  recipient  of  an- 
other letter,  a  letter  quite  as  amazing,  perplexing, 
and  extraordinary  as  that  which  she  had  perused 
in  the  siimmer-house  at  Llandrindod  Wells.  They 
had  returned  to  London  in  October. 

The  letter  was  brought  to  her  in  the  drawing- 
room  one  evening  about  nine  o'clock.  Mrs. 
Arbuthnot  had  gone  out  to  a  Bridge  party. 

Trix  was  engrossed  in  a  rather  exciting  novel 
at  the  moment,  a  blazing  fire  and  an  exceedingly 
comfortable  armchair  adding  to  her  blissful  state 
of  well-being.  Barely  raising  her  eyes  from  the 
book,  she  merely  put  out  her  hand  and  took  the 
letter  from  the  tray.  It  was  not  till  she  had 
come  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  that  she  even 
glanced  at  the  handwriting.  Then  she  saw  that 
the  writing  was  Miss  Tibbutt's. 

Now,  a  letter  from  Miss  Tibbutt  was  of  such 
extremely  rare  occurrence  that  Trix  immediately 
leapt  to  the  conclusion  that  Pia  must  be  ill.     It 

260 


IN  THE  CHURCH  PORCH  261 

was  therefore  with  a  distinct  pang  of  uneasiness 
that  she  broke  the  seal.     This  is  what  she  read : 

"MyDearTrix,— 

"I  have  made  rather  an  astounding  discovery. 
At  least  I  feel  sure  I've  made  it,  I  mean  that  I  am 
right  in  what  I  think.  I  have  no  one  in  whom  I 
can  confide,  as  it  certainly  would  not  do  to  speak 
to  Pia  on  the  subject, — I  feel  sure  she  would 
rather  I  didn't,  so  I  am  writing  to  you  as  I  feel  I 
must  tell  someone.  My  dear,  it  sounds  too 
extraordinary  for  anything,  and  I  can't  understand 
it  myself,  but  it  is  this.  Pia  knows  the  imder- 
gardener  at  the  Hall,  really  knows  him  I  mean,  not 
merely  who  he  is,  and  that  he  is  one  of  the  gardeners, 
and  that  he  came  to  these  parts  last  March,  which, 
of  cotu-se,  we  all  know. 

"I  found  this  out  quite  by  accident,  and  will  ex- 
plain the  incident  to  you.  You  must  forgive  me 
if  I  am  lengthy;  but  I  can  only  write  in  my  own 
way,  dear  Trix,  and  perhaps  that  will  be  a  little 
long-winded. 

"Yesterday  afternoon,  which  was  Saturday,  Pia 
and  I  motored  into  Byestry,  as  she  wanted  to  see 
Father  Dormer  about  something.  I  went  into  the 
church,  while  she  went  to  the  presbytery.  I 
noticed  a  man  in  the  church  as  I  went  in,  a  man  in 
workman's  clothes,  but  of  course  I  did  not  pay 
any  particular  attention  to  him.  I  knelt  down  by 
one  of  the  chairs  near  the  door,  and  just  beyond 
St.  Peter's  statue.     I  suppose  I  must  have  been 


262  ANTON  Y  GRA  Y, -GARDENER 

tneeling  there  about  ten  minutes  when  the  man 
got  up.  He  didn't  genuflect,  and  I  glanced 
involimtarily  at  him.  He  didn't  notice  me,  be- 
cause I  was  partly  hidden  by  St.  Peter's  statue. 
Then  I  saw  it  was  the  under-gardener, — Michael 
Field,  I  believe  his  name  is. 

"My  dear,  the  man  looked  dreadfully  ill,  and  so 
sad.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  lost  some- 
thing or  someone  very  dear  to  him.  He  went 
towards  the  porch,  and  just  before  he  reached  it,  I 
heard  the  door  open.  Whoever  was  coming  in 
must  have  met  him  just  inside  the  church.  There 
was  a  sound  of  steps  as  if  the  person  had  turned 
back  into  the  porch  with  him.  Then  I  heard 
Pia's  voice,  speaking  impulsively  and  almost 
involimtarily.  At  least  I  felt  sure  it  was  involun- 
tarily. It  sounded  exactly  as  if  she  couldn't 
help  speaking. 

* ' '  Oh, '  she  said,  'you've  been  ill.  * 

"'Nothing  of  any  consequence,  Madam,'  I 
heard  the  man's  voice  answer. 

"'But  it  must  have  been  of  consequence,'  I 
heard  Pia  say.     'Have  you  seen  a  doctor?* 

"  'There  was  no  need, '  returned  the  man. 

"Then  I  heard  Pia's  voice,  impulsive  and  a 
little  bit  impatient.  She  evidently  had  not  seen 
me  in  the  church,  and  thought  no  one  was  there. 

'"But  there  is  need.  Why  don't  you  go  and 
see  Doctor  Hilary?' 

"  'I  am  not  ill  enough  to  need  doctors,  Madam, * 
returned  the  man. 


IN  THE  CHURCH  PORCH  263 

"'But  you  are,'  returned  Pia,  in  the  way  that 
she  insists  when  she  is  very  anxious  about  any- 
thing. 

"I  heard  the  man  give  a  little  laugh." 

"*It  is  exceedingly  good  of  you  to  trouble  con- 
cerning me, '  he  said,  'and  I  really  don't  know  why 
you  should. ' 

"  *0h, '  said  Pia  quickly,  'you  need  not  be  afraid 
that  I,  personally,  wish  to  interfere  with  you  again. 
You  made  it  quite  plain  to  me  months  ago  that 
you  had  no  smallest  wish  for  me  to  do  so.  But, 
speaking  simply  as  one  human  being  to  another,  as 
complete  and  entire  strangers,  even,  I  do  ask  you- 
to  see  a  doctor. ' 

"Then  there  was  a  moment's  silence." 

"'I  think  not,'  I  heard  the  man  say  presently. 
'I  am  really  not  sufficiently  interested  in  myself. 
Though — '  and  then,  Trix  dear,  he  half  stopped, 
and  his  voice  altered  in  the  queerest  way, — 'the 
fact  that  you  have  shown  interest  enough  to  ask  me 
to  do  so,  has,  curiously  enough,  made  me  feel 
quite  a  good  deal  more  important  in  my  own 
eyes. ' 

"'You  refused  my  friendship,'  I  heard  Pia  say, 
and  her  voice  shook  a  little. 

"*I  did,'  said  the  man  in  rather  a  stem  voice. 

"Again,  Trix  dear,  there  was  a  little  silence. 
Then  Pia  said: 

"'I  don't  intend  again  to  offer  a  thing  that 
has  once  been  rejected.  I  shall  never  do  that. 
But  because  we  once  were  friends,  or  at  all  events. 


264  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

fancied  ourselves  friends,  I  do  ask  you  to  see  Doctor 
Hilary.     That  is  all. ' 

* '  She  must  have  turned  from  him  at  once,  because 
she  came  into  the  church,  and  went  up  the  aisle  to 
her  own  chair.  She  knelt  down,  and  put  her  hands 
over  her  eyes;  and,  Trix  dearest,  she  was  crying. 
I  am  crying  now  when  I  think  about  it,  so  forgive 
the  blots  on  the  paper.  A  minute  later  I  heard 
the  door  open  and  shut  again,  so  I  knew  the  man 
had  gone.  I  got  up  as  softly  as  I  could,  and 
slipped  out  of  the  church.  It  would  never  have 
done  for  Pia  to  see  me,  and  I  was  so  thankful  to 
St.  Peter  for  hiding  me. 

"Well,  my  dear  Trix,  wasn't  it  amazing?  And 
one  of  the  most  amazing  things  was  that  the  man's 
voice  and  way  of  speaking  was  quite  educated,  not 
the  least  as  one  would  suppose  a  gardener  would 
speak. 

"I  went  to  the  post-office  and  bought  some 
stamps,  though  I  really  had  plenty  at  home,  and 
loitered  about  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Then  I  thought  I  had  better  go  and  find  Pia.  I 
met  her  coming  out  of  the  church.  She  was  very 
pale;  but  she  smiled,  and  wanted  to  know  where 
I'd  been,  and  I  told  her  to  the  post-office.  And 
then  we  drove  home  together.  Pia  laughed  and 
chatted  all  the  way,  while  my  heart  was  in  a 
big  lump  in  my  throat,  and  I  could  hardly  keep 
from  crying,  like  the  foolish  old  woman  that  I 
am.  I  ought  to  have  been  talking,  and  helping  Pia 
to  pretend. 


IN^THE  CHURCH  PORCH  265 

"  She  has  been  qiiite  gay  all  to-day,  and-  oddly 
gentle  too.  But  you  know  the  kind  of  gayness. 
And  to-night  my  heart  feels  Hke  breaking  for  her, 
for  there  is  some  sad  mystery  I  can't  fathom.  So, 
Trix  dearest,  I  have  written  to  you,  because  I  can- 
not keep  it  aU  to  myself.  And  I  am  crying  again 
now,  though  I  know  I  oughtn't  to.  So  I  am  going 
to  leave  off,  and  say  the  rosary  instead. 

"  Good  night,  my  dear  Trix. 

"  Your  affectionate  old  friend, 

"  Esther  Tibbutt. 
P.S.     I  wish  you  could  come  down  here  again. 
Can't  you?" 

Trix  leant  back  in  her  chair,  and  drew  a  long 
breath.  The  novel  was  utterly  and  entirely  for- 
gotten. So  that  was  what  Pia's  letter  had  meant. 
It  was  this  man  she  had  been  thinking  of  all  the 
time.  A  dozen  Httle  unanswered  questions  were 
answered  now,  a  dozen  queer  little  riddles  solved. 

Trix  slid  down  off  her  chair  on  to  the  bear- 
skin rug  in  front  of  the  fire.  She  leant  her  arms 
sideways  on  the  chair,  resting  her  chin  upon  them. 
Most  assuredly  she  must  place  the  whole  matter 
clearly  before  her  mind,  in  so  far  as  possible.  She 
gazed  steadily  at  the  glowing  coals,  ruminative, 
reflective. 

And  firstly  it  was  presented  to  her  mind  as 
the  paramount  fact,  that  it  was  the  mention  of  this 
man — this  Michael  Field,  so-called — that  had 
been  the  direct  cause  of  Pia's  odd  irritabiUty,  and 


266  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

not  the  indirect  cause,  as  she  most  erroneously  had 
imagined.  Somehow,  in  some  way,  he  had  caused 
her  such  pain  that  the  mere  mention  of  his  name 
had  been  like  laying  a  hand  roughly  on  a  wound. 
Secondly,  though  Trix  most  promptly  dismissed 
the  memory,  there  was  Pia's  hurting  Httle  speech, 
the  speech  which  had  followed  on  her — Trix's — 
theories  promulgated  beneath  the  lime  trees.  In 
the  Hght  of  Miss  Tibbutt's  letter  that  speech  was 
easy  enough  of  explanation.  Had  not  Pia  had 
practical  proof  of  the  unworkableness  of  those 
theories?  Proof  which  must  have  hurt  her  quite 
considerably.  How  utterly  and  entirely  childish 
her  words  must  have  seemed  to  Pia, — Pia  who 
knew,  while  she  truly  was  merely  surmising,  setting 
forth  ideas  which  assuredly  she  had  never  at- 
tempted to  put  into  practice.  Thirdly  —  Trix 
ticked  off  the  facts  on  her  fingers — there  was  the 
amazing  little  game  of  cross-questions.  That  too 
was  entirely  explained.  How  precisely  it  was 
explained  she  did  not  attempt  to  put  into  actual 
formulated  words.  Nevertheless  she  perceived 
quite  clearly  that  it  was  explained.  And  lastly 
there  was  Pia's  letter  to  her,  the  letter  which  had 
vainly  tried  to  hide  the  bitterness  which  had 
prompted  it.  Clear  as  daylight  now  was  the 
explanation  of  that  letter.  Buoyed  up  by  Trix's 
advice,  by  Trix's  eloquence,  she  had  once  more 
attempted  to  put  the  high-sounding  theories 
into  practice.  And  it  had  proved  a  failure,  an 
,  utter  and  complete  failure. 


IN  THE  CHURCH  PORCH  267 

All  these  things  fell  at  once  into  place,  fitting 
together  like  the  pieces  of  a  puzzle,  an  unfinished 
puzzle,  nevertheless.  The  largest  pieces  were  still 
scattered  haphazard  on  the  board,  and  there 
seemed  extremely  Uttle  prospect  of  fitting  them 
into  the  rest.  How  had  Pia  ever  met  the  man? 
What  was  he  doing  at  Chorley  Old  Hall?  And 
why  was  he  pretending  to  be  Michael  Field,  when 
she — ^Trix — now  knew  him  to  be  Antony  Gray? 
The  last  two  proved  the  greatest  difficulty,  nor 
could  Trix,  for  all  her  gazing  into  the  fire,  find 
the  place  they  ought  to  occupy.  She  remembered, 
too,  her  own  idea  regarding  the  colour  of  that 
bubble.  Was  it  possible  that  she  had  been  right 
in  her  idea?  Verily,  if  she  had  been,  in  the  face  of 
this  new  discovery,  it  opened  up  a  yet  more  as- 
tounding problem.  Pia  actually  and  verily  in  love 
with  the  man,  a  man  she  believed  to  be  imder- 
gardener  at  the  Hall, — Pia,  the  distant,  the  proud, 
the  reserved  Pia!     It  was  amazing,  unthinkable! 

Trix  heaved  a  sigh;  it  was  all  quite  beyond 
her.  One  thing  alone  was  obvious;  she  must  go 
down  to  Woodleigh  again  as  soon  as  possible. 
Certainly  she  had  no  very  clear  notion  as  to  what 
precise  good  she  could  do  by  going,  nevertheless 
she  was  entirely  convinced  that  go  she  must. 
And  then,  having  reached  this  point  in  her  reflec- 
tions, she  returned  once  more  to  the  beginning,  and 
began  all  over  again. 

And  suddenly  another  idea  struck  her,  one 
which  had  been  entirely  omitted  from  her  former 


268  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

train  of  thought.  Was  it  possible  that  Mr. 
Danver  knew  of  the  identity  of  this  Michael 
Field?  Was  it  possible,  was  it  conceivable  that 
he  held  the  key  to  those  greatest  riddles?  Truly 
it  would  seem  possible.  His  one  big  action  had 
been  so  extraordinary,  so  mad  even,  that  it  would 
be  quite  justifiable  to  believe,  or  at  least  con- 
jecture, that  minor  extraordinary  actions  might  be 
mixed  up  with  it. 

And  then,  from  that,  Trix  turned  to  a  some- 
what more  detailed  consideration  of  Pia's  position. 
One  point  presented  itself  quite  definitely  and 
clearly  to  her.  It  was  certainly  evident  from 
that  memorable  letter  of  Pia's,  that  she  did  regard 
this  man  as  a  social  inferior,  from  which  fact  it  was 
entirely  plain  that  she  had  no  smallest  notion  of  his 
real  identity.  Trix  clasped  her  hands  beneath  her 
chin,  shut  her  eyes,  and  plunged  yet  deeper  into 
her  reflections.  They  were  becoming  even  more 
intricate. 

Now,  would  it  be  a  comfort  to  Pia  to  know  that 
this  man  was  by  birth  her  social  equal,  or  would  it, 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  he  had  in  some  way  shown 
her  what  she  had  called  "a  glimpse  of  the  hairy 
hoof,"  appear  to  her  an  added  insult.  Trix 
pondered  the  question  deeply,  turning  it  in  her 
mind,  and  sighing  prodigiously  more  than  once 
in  the  process. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  she  opened  her  eyes. 
Where,  after  all,  was  the  use  of  troubling  her 
head  on  that  score.      Comfort  or  not,  who  was 


IN  THE  CHURCH  PORCH  269 

to  tell  Pia?  Most  assuredly  Trix  couldn't.  She 
had  considered  that  question  already,  weeks  ago 
in  fact,  and  answered  it  in  the  negative.  Of  com"se 
it  was  quite  possible  that  she  was  being  somewhat 
over-sensitive  and  ultra-scrupulous  on  the  subject. 
But  there  it  was.  It  was  the  way  she  regarded 
matters. 

Trix  sighed  deeply.  It  was  all  terribly  per- 
plexing, and  Tibby's  letter  was  quite  horribly 
pathetic.  Anyhow  she  would  go  down  to  Wood- 
leigh  as  soon  as  she  possibly  could. 

She  had  been  so  entirely  engrossed  with  her 
reflections,  that  she  had  quite  forgotten  the  pass- 
ing of  time.  It  was  with  a  start  of  surprise, 
therefore,  that  she  heard  the  door  open.  At 
the  selfsame  moment  the  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece chimed  the  hour  of  midnight.  Trix  got  to 
her  feet. 

"My  dearest,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Arbuthnot, 
"not  gone  to  bed  yet!  And  all  the  beauty  sleep 
before  midnight,  they  tell  us.  Not  that  you  need 
it  except  in  the  way  of  preservation,  dearest.  For 
I  always  did  tell  you,  regardless  of  making  you 
conceited  which  I  do  not  think  I  do  do,  that  I 
have  admired  you  from  the  time  you  were  in 
your  cradle.  Well,  food  is  the  next  best  thing  to 
sleep,  so  come  and  have  a  sandwich  and  some 
sherry.  I  am  famished,  positively  famished. 
And  I  ate  an  excellent  dinner,  I  know;  but  Bridge 
is  always  hungry  work.  Bring  the  tray  to  the 
fire,  dearest.     I  see  James  has  put  it  all  ready. 


270  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

And  ham,  which  I  adore.  It  may  be  indigestible, 
though  I  never  beHeve  it  with  things  I  Uke.  Not 
merely  because  I  like  to  think  so,  but  because  it  is 
true.  Nature  knows  best,  as  she  knew  when  I  was 
a  child,  and  gave  me  a  distaste  for  fat  which  always 
upset  me,  and  a  great  appreciation  for  oranges 
which  doctors  are  crying  up  tremendously  nowa- 
days." 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  sank  down  in  an  armchair,  and 
threw  back  her  cloak.  Trix  brought  the  tray  to  a 
small  table  near  her. 

"And  how  have  you  been  amusing  yourself, 
dearest?  Not  dull,  I  hope?  But  the  fire  and  a 
book  are  always  the  best  of  companions  I  think,  to 
say  nothing  of  one's  own  thoughts,  though  some 
people  do  consider  day-dreaming  waste  of  time. 
So  narrow-minded.  They  read  novels  which  are 
only  other  people's  day-dreams,  and  their  own  less 
expensive,  as  saving  library  subscriptions  and  the 
buying  of  books,  besides  a  certain  superiority  in 
feeling  they  are  your  own.  On  the  whole  more 
satisfactory,  too.  Even  though  you  know  the  end 
before  you  come  to  it,  it  can  always  be  arranged 
as  you  like,  and  sad  or  happy  to  suit  your  mood. 
Though  for  my  part  it  should  always  be  happy.  If 
you're  happy  you  want  it  happy,  and  if  you're  not, 
you  still  want  it  to  make  you.  If  it  weren't 
for  the  difficulty  of  dividing  into  chapters,  I'd  write 
my  own  day-dreams,  and  no  doubt  have  a  big 
sale.  But  publishers  have  an  absurd  prejudice 
in  favour  of  chapters,  and  even  headings,  which 


IN  THE  CHURCH  PORCH  271 

means  an  average  of  thirty  titles.  Quite  brain- 
racking.  A  dear  friend  of  mine  who  wrote,  told 
me  she  always  thought  the  title  the  most  difiScult 
part  of  a  book." 

She  helped  herself  to  a  glass  of  sherry 
and  two  sandwiches  as  she  concluded  her 
speech. 

"And  did  you  really  have  a  pleasant  evening?" 
said  Trix,  politely  interrogative. 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  surveyed  her  sandwich  reflect- 
ively. 

"Well,  dearest,  on  the  whole,  yes.  But  tm- 
fortimately  Mrs.  Townsend  was  there.  An  excel- 
lent Bridge  player,  and  I  am  always  pleased  to  see 
her  myself,  but  some  people  are  so  odd  in  their 
manner  towards  her.  Quite  embarrassing  really, 
in  fact  awkward  at  times.  Absurd,  too,  with  so 
good  a  player.  And  though  her  father  was  a  gro- 
cer it  was  in  the  wholesale  Hne,  which  is  different 
from  the  retail.  Besides,  she  married  well,  and 
doesn't  drop  her  aitches." 

Trix's  chin  went  up.  "I  hate  class  distinctions 
being  made  so  horribly  obvious,"  said  she  with 
fine  scorn. 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  looked  thoughtful. 

"Well,  dearest,  in  Mrs.  Townsend's  case,  per- 
haps. But  not  always.  I  remember  a  girl  I 
knew  married  a  farmer.     Most  fooHsh." 

"But  why,  if  he  was  nice?"  demanded  Trix, 
exceedingly  firmly. 

"Oh,  but  dearest,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Arbuthnot, 


272  ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

*'it  was  so  unsuitable.  He  wasn't  even  a  gentle- 
man farmer.     He  had  been  a  labourer. " 

"He  might  have  been  a  nice  labotu*er,"  con- 
tended Trix. 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  sighed.  "In  himself,  possibly. 
But  it  wouldn't  do.  The  irritation  afterwards. 
We  are  told  to  avoid  occasions  of  sin,  and  it  would 
not  be  avoiding  occasions  of  ill-temper  if  you 
married  a  man  like  that.  Beer  and  muddy  boots, 
to  say  nothing  of  inferior  tobacco.  The  glamour 
passed,  though  for  my  part  I  cannot  see  how 
there  ever  would  be  any  glamour,  probably 
infatuation,  the  boots — ^you  know  the  kind, 
dearest,  great  nails  and  smelling  of  leather — the 
beer  and  the  tobacco  would  be  so  terribly  obvious. 
No,  dearest,  it  doesn't  do. " 

Trix  was  silent.  After  all  wasn't  she  again  ar- 
guing on  a  point  regarding  which  she  had  had  no 
real  experience?  Pia  had  tried  the  experiment, 
and  declared  it  didn't  work;  and  that,  in  the  case 
of  a  man  who  was  of  gentle  birth,  though  posing  as 
a  labourer.  In  her  own  mind  she  felt  it  ought  to 
work, —  of  course  under  certain  circumstances.  It 
was  not  the  birth,  but  the  mind  that  mattered. 
And,  if  there  were  the  right  kind  of  mind,  there 
most  certainly  would  not  be  the  boots,  the  beer, 
and  the  tobacco.  Trix  was  perfectly  sure  there 
wouldn't  be.  But  it  evidently  was  no  atom  of 
good  trying  to  explain  to  other  people  what 
she  meant,  because  they  entirely  failed  to  under- 
stand, and  she  was   not  certain   that  she  could 


IN  THE  CHURCH  PORCH  273 

explain  very  well  to  herself  even  what  she  did 
mean. 

It  was  not  in  the  least  that  she  had  ever  had 
the  smallest  desire  to  run  counter  to  these  conven- 
tions in  any  really  important  way,  but  she  did  hate 
hard  and  fast  rules.  Why  should  people  lay  down 
laws  as  rigid  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians 
on  matters  that  did  not  involve  actual  questions 
of  right  and  wrong!  There  were  enough  of  those 
to  observe,  without  inventing  others  which  were 
not  in  the  least  necessary. 

It  was  all  horribly  muddling,  and  rather  depress- 
ing, she  decided.  She  finished  her  sandwich  and 
glass  of  sherry,  swallowing  a  little  lump  in  her 
throat  at  the  same  time.     Then  she  spoke. 

"Aunt  Lilla, "  she  said  impulsively,  "I  want 
to  go  down  to  Woodleigh. " 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  looked  up. 

"Woodleigh,  dearest.  You  were  there  only  a 
little  time  ago,  weren't  you?" 

"It  was  in  August,"  said  Trix.  "And,  any- 
how, I  want  to  go  again.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you?" 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  took  another  sandwich. 

"That's  the  fifth,"  she  said.  "Disgraceful, 
but  all  the  fault  of  Bridge.  Why,  of  course  not,  if 
you  want  to  go.  But  what  made  you  think  of  it 
to-night?" 

Trix  leant  back  in  her  chair.  "I  had  a  letter 
from  Miss  Tibbutt, "  she  said. 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  laid  down  her  sandwich.  She 
18 


274  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

regarded  Trix  with  anxious  and  almost  reproachful 
eyes. 

"Oh,  my  dearest,  nothing  wrong  I  hope?  So 
inconsiderate  of  me  to  talk  of  Bridge.  I  saw  a 
letter  in  your  hand,  but  no  black  edge.  Unless 
there  is  a  black  edge,  one  does  not  readily  imagine 
bad  news.  Not  like  telegrams.  They  send  my 
heart  to  my  mouth,  and  generally  nothing  but  a 
Bridge  postponement.  So  trivial.  But  it  is  the 
colour  of  the  envelope,  and  the  possibility.  Ill 
news  flies  apace,  and  telegrams  the  quickest  mode 
of  communicating  it.  Except  the  telephone. 
And  that  is  expensive  at  any  distance."  Mrs. 
Arbuthnot  paused,  and  took  up  her  sandwich, 
once  more. 

"Oh,  no,"  responded  Trix,  answering  the  first 
sentence  of  the  speech.  Experience,  long  experi- 
ence had  taught  her  to  seize  upon  the  first  half- 
dozen  words  of  her  aunt's  discourses,  and  cling  to 
them,  allowing  the  remainder  to  float  harmlessly 
into  thin  air.  Later  there  might  be  the  necessity 
to  clutch  at  a  few  more,  but  generally  the  first  half- 
dozen  sufficed.  *  *  Oh,  no ;  no  bad  news.  But  Miss 
Tibbutt  is  not  quite  satisfied  about  Pia. " 

That  was  true,  at  all  events. 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  made  a  little  cUcking  sound 
with  her  tongue,  expressive  of  sympathy. 

"Oh,  my  dearest,  I  know  that  term  'not  quite 
satisfied.'  So  vague.  It  may  mean  nothing,  or 
it  may  mean  a  good  deal.  And  we  always  think 
it  means  a  good  deal,  when  it  is  probably  only 


IN  THE  CHURCH  PORCH  275 

influenza.  Depressing,  but  not  at  all  serious  if 
taken  in  time.  And  ammoniated  quinine  the  best 
thing  possible.  Not  bitter,  either,  if  taken  in 
capsule  form.  But  I  quite  feel  with  you,  and  go 
by  all  means  if  you  wish.  And  take  eucalyptus 
with  you  to  avoid  catching  it  yourself.  So  infec- 
tious, they  say,  but  not  to  be  shirked  if  one  is 
needed.  I  would  never  stand  in  the  light  of  duty. 
The  corporal  works  of  mercy,  inconvenient  at 
times,  and  I  have  never  been  to  see  a  prisoner  in 
my  Hfe,  but  perhaps  easier  than  the  spiritual, 
except  the  three  last.  You  always  run  the  risk 
of  interference  with  the  first  of  the  spiritual,  so 
wiser  to  leave  them  entirely  to  priests.  When  do 
you  want  to  go,  dearest?" 

Trix  came  to  herself  with  a  little  start.  She 
had  lost  the  thread  of  Mrs.  Arbuthnot's  discourse. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,  I  think,"  she  said, 
reflectively.  "I  can  wire  to-morrow  and  get  a 
reply." 

Mrs.  Arbuthnot  got  up. 

"Then  that's  settled.  Don't  look  anxious, 
dearest,  because  there  is  probably  no  cause  for  it. 
Though  I  know  how  easy  it  is  to  give  advice,  and 
how  difficult  to  take  it,  even  when  it  is  oneself. 
Though  perhaps  that  is  reaUy  harder,  being  often 
half-hearted.  And  now  we  will  go  to  bed,  and 
things  will  look  brighter  in  the  morning,  especially 
if  it  is  fine.  And  the  glass  going  up  as  I  came 
through  the  hall.  Quite  time  it  did.  I  always  had 
sympathy  with  the  boy  in  the  poem — ^Jane  and 


276  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Anne  Taylor,  wasn't  it? — ^who  smashed  the  glass 
in  the  hoHdays  because  it  wouldn't  go  up.  It 
always  seems  as  if  it  were  its  fault.  Though  I 
Joiow  it's  foolish  to  think  so.  And  there  is  the 
clock  striking  one,  and  I  shall  eat  more  sandwiches 
if  I  stay,  so  let  us  put  out  the  Hght,  and  go  to  bed." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A  QUESTION  OF  IMPORTANCE 

It  had  been  chance  pure  and  simple  which 
happened  to  take  Doctor  Hilary  to  Woodleigh  on 
the  day  the  Duchessa  received  Trix's  telegram,  but 
it  cannot  be  equally  said  that  it  was  chance  which 
took  him  to  Exeter  on  the  following  day,  and 
which  made  him  travel  down  again  to  Kingsleigh 
by  the  four  o'clock  train.  Also  it  was  certainly 
not  chance  which  induced  him  to  be  on  the  plat- 
form at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  train 
was  due  at  the  station,  ready  to  keep  a  careful 
lookout  on  all  the  passengers  in  it. 

Trix  had  had  an  uneasy  journey  from  London, 
She  had  re-read  Miss  Tibbutt's  letter  at  least  a 
dozen  times.  At  first  she  had  allowed  herself 
to  be  almost  tmreasonably  depressed  by  it;  after- 
wards she  had  been  almost  more  unreasonably 
depressed  because  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be 
depressed  in  the  first  instance.  Quite  possibly 
it  was  all  a  storm  in  a  tea-cup,  and  this  man  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  Pia's  imhappiness. 

277 


278  ANTONY  GRAY,-<}ARDENER 

Of  course  the  chance  meeting  and  the  overheard 
conversation  had  fitted  in  so  neatly  as  to  make 
Miss  Tibbutt  think  it  had,  and  she  had  easily 
communicated  the  same  idea  to  Trix.  But  quite 
probably  it  had  nothing  more  to  do  with  it  than 
her  own  siumise  regarding  Doctor  Hilary  had  had. 
And  that  had  proved  entirely  erroneous,  though  at 
the  time  it  had  appeared  the  most  sane  of  conclu- 
sions. Also  Miss  Tibbutt  might  quite  conceivably 
be  wrong  as  to  Pia's  being  now  tmhappy  at  all, 
whatever  she  had  seemed  to  be  in  the  summer. 

Trix's  visit  began  to  appear  to  her  somewhat 
in  the  light  of  a  wild-goose  chase.  Anyhow  she 
had  not  given  Pia  the  smallest  hint  as  to  why 
she  was  coming.  Naturally  she  could  not  possibly 
have  done  that.  She  had  still  to  invent  some  tangi- 
ble excuse  for  her  sudden  desire  to  visit  Woodleigh 
again.  Sick  of  London  greyness  would  be  quite 
good  enough,  though  certainly  not  entirely  true. 
But  possibly  a  shght  deviation  from  truth  would  be 
excusable  under  the  circumstances.  And  she  was 
sick  of  London  greyness.  The  fog  yesterday  had 
got  on  her  nerves  altogether,  though  quite  pro- 
bably it  would  not  have  done  so  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Miss  Tibbutt's  letter,  which  had  made  her  feel 
so  horribly  restless.  But  then  there  was  no  need 
to  say  why  the  fog  had  got  on  her  nerves. 

Yes;  the  fog  would  be  excuse  enough.  And 
it  was  not  an  atom  of  good  worrying  herself  as  to 
whether  Miss  Tibbutt  had  been  right  or  wrong 
regarding  the  idea  communicated  in  her  letter. ,  If 


A  QUESTION  OF  IMPORTANCE       279 

she  were  right  it  made  Trix  unhappy  to  think  about 
it,  and  if  she  were  wrong  it  made  Trix  cross  to 
think  she  had  thought  about  it.  So  the  wisest 
course  was  not  to  think  about  it  at  all.  But 
the  difficulty  was  not  to  think  about  it. 

Trix  knew  perfectly  well  that  absurd  little 
things  had  this  power  of  depressing  her,  and  she 
wished  they  had  not.  She  knew,  also,  that  other 
quite  little  things  had  the  power  of  cheering  her  in 
equal  proportion,  and  she  wished  that  one  of  these 
other  things  would  happen  now.  But  that  was  not 
particularly  likely. 

The  depression  had  been  at  its  lowest  ebb  as 
they  ran  into  Bath.  It  was,  however,  slightly  on 
the  mend  by  the  time  Trix  reached  Exeter,  though 
she  was  still  feeling  that  her  journey  had  probably, 
if  not  certainly,  been  a  piece  of  pure  foolishness 
on  her  part. 

The  carriage  she  was  in  was  up  in  the  front 
of  the  train.  She  was  the  sole  occupant  thereof. 
She  now  put  up  something  akin  to  a  prayer  that 
she  might  remain  in  undisturbed  possession. 
Apparently,  however,  the  prayer  was  not  to  be 
granted.  A  tall  figure,  masculine  in  character, 
suddenly  blocked  the  light  from  the  window. 
Trix  heaved  a  small  sigh  of  patient  resignation. 

"Good  afternoon.  Miss  Devereux, "  said  a  voice. 

Trix  looked  up.  Her  resignation  took  to  itself 
wings  and  fled. 

"Doctor  Hilary!"  she  exclaimed. 

Doctor  Hilary  heaved  his  big  form  into  the 


280  ANTON Y  GRA  Y,— GARDENER 

carriage,  and  turned  to  take  a  tea-basket  from  a 
porter  just  behind  him.     First  tipping  the  said 
porter,  he  put  the  basket  carefully  on  the  seat. 
,    "I've  been  on  the  lookout  for  you,"  he  re- 
marked calmly. 

"Oh,  **  said  Trix,  a  trifle  surprised. 

Doctor  Hilary  sat  down,  keeping,  however,  one 
eye  towards  the  platform. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  still  cahnly.  "The  Du- 
chessa  happened  to  tell  me  yesterday  that  you 
were  coming,  and  as  I  happened  to  be  in  Exeter  to- 
day I  thought  we  might  as  well  do  this  bit  of  the 
journey  together." 

"I  see,"  said  Trix. 
Doctor  Hilary  looked  up.     "You  don't  mind,  do 
you?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"Mind!"  echoed  Trix,  "I  am  quite  delighted. 
I've  been  so  bored,  and  rather  tired,  and — yes, 
I  think  quite  depressed. " 

Doctor  Hilary  looked  concerned. 

"You  poor  little  thing,"  he  said.  "And  I 
suppose  you  have  had  one  sandwich,  and  no  tea. 
Men  turn  to  food  when  they're  depressed,  and 
women  think  they  can't  eat.  Honestly,  there's 
nothing  like  a  good  meal  for  helping  one  to  look 
on  the  brighter  side  of  things. " 

Trix  smiled  first  at  him,  and  then  at  the  tea- 
basket. 

"Anyhow  I'm  to  be  fed  now,  it  seems. " 

The  train  began  to  move  slowly  out  of  the 
station.     Doctor    Hilary    gave    vent    to    an    ill- 


A  QUESTION  OF  IMPORTANCE       281 

suppressed  sigh  of  relief.  The  train  was  non-stop 
to  Brent.  He  began  pulling  at  the  straps  of  the 
tea-basket. 

Tea  and  Doctor  Hilary's  company  had  a  really 
marvellous  effect  on  Trix's  spirits.  The  Httle 
pleasant  occurrence  had  happened,  and  quite 
unexpectedly. 

"I'm  glad  you're  coming  down  to  Woodleigh, ** 
said  Doctor  Hilary  presently.  "The  Duchessa 
has  seemed  out  of  sorts  lately,  and  I  fancy  your 
coming  will  cheer  her. " 

"Oh,"  said  Trix,  "you  think  so,  too."  And 
then  she  stopped. 

"Who  else  thinks  so?"  queried  Doctor  Hilary. 

"Well,  Miss  Tibbutt  didn't  seem  quite  satisfied 
about  her, ' '  owned  Trix.  * '  It  was  a  letter  from  her 
made  me  come.  And  then  I  thought  perhaps  she'd 
been  mistaken,  and  I'd  been  silly  to  think  there 
was  any  need  of  me,  and  that — well,  that  I'd  been 
a  little  officious.  It's  a  depressing  sensation,'* 
sighed  Trix. 

Doctor  Hilary  laughed. 

"So  that  was  the  cause  of  the  depression," 
quoth  he. 

Trix  nodded.  "It  was  rather  silly,  wasn't 
it?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  he  said. 

"It  was  such  an  idiotic  little  thing  to  worry 
about, "said  Trix 

Doctor  Hilary  looked  thoughtful. 

"Perhaps.     But  isn't  it  just  the  little  things 


282  ANTON  Y  GRA  Y,— GARDENER 

we  do  worry  over?  They  are  so  small,  you  know, 
it's  difficult  to  handle  them.  It  is  far  easier  not  to 
worry  over  a  thing  you  can  get  a  real  grasp  of. " 

Trix  smiled  gratefully. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  understand,"  she  said.  "I 
am  always  doing  things  on  impulse.  I  fancy  I  am 
indispensable,  I  suppose,  and  then  all  at  once  I 
think  what  a  little  donkey  I  am  to  have  interfered. 
It  is  so  easy  to  think  oneself  important  to  other 
people's  welfare  when  one  isn't  a  bit. " 

"Aren't  you?"  said  Doctor  Hilary  quietly. 

"Of  course  not,"  replied  Trix.  There  was  a 
hint  of  indignation  in  her  voice.  "And  please 
don't  say  I  am,  or  else  it  will  make  me  feel  that 
you  think  I  said  what  I  did  say  just  in  order  that 
you  might  contradict  me.  Like  fishing  for  a 
compliment,  you  know.  And  I  didn't  mean  that 
in  the  least,  I  didn't  truly." 

Doctor  Hilary  smiled,  a  queer  little  smile. 

"I  know  you  didn't  mean  that.  But  all  the 
same  I  am  going  to  contradict  you." 

Trix  looked  up.  "Oh  well,"  she  began,  laugh- 
ing and  half  resignedly.  And  then  something 
in  Doctor  Hilary's  face  made  her  stop  suddenly, 
her  heart  beating  at  a  mad  pace. 

"You  have  become  very  important  in  my  life, " 
he  said  quietly.  ' '  I  did  not  realize  how  important, 
till  you  went  away. " 

Trix  was  silent. 

' '  I  am  not  very  good  at  making  pretty  speeches, 
said  Doctor  Hilary  steadily,   "but  I  hope  you 


A  QUESTION  OF  IMPORTANCE       283 

understand  exactly  what  I  mean.  You  have 
become  so  important  to  my  welfare  that  I  should 
find  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  go  on  living  without 
you.  I  suppose  I  should  do  it  somehow  if  I  must, 
but  probably  I  should  make  a  very  poor  job  of  it.  '* 
He  stopped. 

Trix  gave  a  sudden  little  intake  of  her  breath. 
For  a  moment  there  was  a  dead  silence.    Then : — • 

*  *  Will  you  always  feed  me  when  I  am  depressed  ? '  * 
she  asked.  And  there  was  a  little  quiver  half  of 
laughter,  half  of  tears,  in  her  voice. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

MIDNIGHT  REFLECTIONS 

"Yes,  Tibby  angel,  you  were  quite  right." 

It  was  the  sixth  time  Trix  had  made  the  same 
remark  in  the  last  half  hour,  and  she  had  made  it 
each  time  with  the  same  attentive  deliberation  as  if 
the  words  were  being  only  once  spoken,  though 
she  knew  she  would  probably  have  to  say  them 
at  least  six  times  more. 

She  was  sitting  in  front  of  her  bedroom  fire 
clad  in  a  blue  dressing-gown.  Miss  Tibbutt  was 
sitting  in  an  armchair  opposite  to  her.  She  had 
come  into  the  room  presumably  for  two  minutes 
only,  to  see  that  Trix  had  aU  she  wanted,  but  after 
she  had  fluttered  for  full  ten  minutes  from  dressing- 
table  to  bed,  and  back  to  dressing-table  again, 
talking  all  the  time,  Trix  had  firmly  pushed  her 
into  an  armchair. 

Miss  Tibbutt  took  off  her  spectacles,  and 
polished  them  slowly. 

"And  what  is  to  be  done,  Trix  dear?" 

Trix  looked  thoughtful. 

"I  really  don't  know  just  at  the  moment.  You 
284 


MIDNIGHT  REFLECTIONS  285 

see,  though  we  are  pretty  certain,  we  are  not 
quite  certain.  I  know  I  thought  last  August 
that  Pia  was  in  love  with  someone,  and  now  you 
say  you  are  certain  it  is  this  man,  and  of  course, 
as  you  say — "  Trix  hesitated  a  moment,  feeling 
slightly  hypocritical, — "it  does  seem  odd  when  he 
is  only  a  gardener,  and  one  wonders  how  she 
could  have  met  him,  and  all  that.  But,  you 
know,  you  are  not  quite  certain  that  you  are 
right;  or,  even  supposing  that  you  are,  that 
Pia  will  want  any  interference  on  our  part.  We 
must  just  wait  a  day  or  two  and  think  matters 
over. " 

Miss  Tibbutt  sighed. 

' ' But  you  do  think  I  was  right  to  let  you  know?  '* 
she  asked. 

And  a  seventh  time  Trix  replied  with  careful 
deliberation, 

"Yes,  Tibby  angel,  you  were  quite  right.** 

"You  see,"  said  Miss  Tibbutt,  "I  thought—'* 
And  she  related  exactly  what  she  had  thought,  all 
over  again. 

Trix  listened  exceedingly  patiently.  She  did 
not  even  know  she  was  being  patient.  She  only 
knew  the  enormous  relief  it  was  to  Miss  Tibbutt  to 
repeat  herself.  With  each  repetition  the  thought 
which  had  choked  her  mind,  so  to  speak,  for  the 
last  five  days,  was  further  cleared  from  her  brain. 
It  was  quite  possible  that  Miss  Tibbutt  might 
sleep  a  very  great  deal  better  that  night  than  she 
had  done  lately. 


286  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

At  last  she  stopped  speaking,  and  looked 
towards  the  clock. 

"My  dear,  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  You 
must  be  tired  after  your  journey,  and  here  have  I 
been  thinking  only  of  myself  again,  and  of  my  own 
anxiety,  and  not  of  you  at  all.  I  am  not  going 
to  keep  you  up  a  moment  longer.  And  if  I  am  late 
for  breakfast,  please  tell  Pia  I  have  gone  to  Mass. 
The  walk  won't  hurt  me,  and  telling  our  dear 
Lord  all  about  it  will  be  the  best  way  to  help  Pia. 
So  good  night,  dear.  And  you  are  really  not 
looking  very  tired  in  spite  of  yoiu"  journey,  and  my 
having  kept  you  up  so  late." 

Trix  went  with  her  to  the  door,  and  then  re- 
turned to  her  chair  by  the  fire.  She  was  not  in  the 
least  sleepy,  and  bed  would  do  quite  well  enough 
later.  Just  now  she  wanted  to  think.  There 
were  two  distinct  trends  of  thought  in  which  she 
wished  to  indulge;  the  one  certainly  contained 
cause  for  a  little  anxiety,  the  other  was  quite 
extraordinarily  deHcious.  She  must  take  the 
anxious  trend  first. 

She  had  been  considering  matters  exceedingly 
earnestly  aU  the  while  Miss  Tibbutt  had  been 
talking  to  her,  and  she  had  come  to  one  very 
definite  conclusion.  She  felt  perfectly  certain 
now,  that  it  would  ease  the  situation  consider- 
ably if  Pia  knew  who  this  Michael  Field  really  was. 
It  had  come  to  her  in  an  illimiinating  flash,  that 
the  same  reason  which  had  caused  him  to  hide 
his  identity,  was  responsible  for  his  odd  behaviour 


MIDNIGHT  REFLECTIONS  287 

towards  Pia.  Now,  of  course,  if  Pia  could  see  some 
even  possible  reason  and  excuse  for  the  oddness  of 
his  behaviour,  it  must  be  a  great  comfort  to  her. 
But  the  question  was,  coiild  she — ^Trix — tell  her? 
Would  not  the  telling  probably  involve  her  in  the 
untruth  her  soul  loathed?  Or,  if  she  was  firm  not 
to  tell  lies,  would  it  not  somehow  involve  a  break- 
ing of  her  promise  to  Nicholas?  Again  she  saw,  or 
thought  she  saw,  all  the  questions  which  must 
ensue  if  she  said  where  she  had  met  the  man;  and  if 
she  did  not  sa}'-  where  she  had  met  him,  it  would 
probably  mean  saying  something  which,  virtually 
speaking  at  least,  would  not  be  true.  If  only  she 
had  not  met  him  in  the  grounds  of  Chorley  Old 
Hall. 

It  was  the  same  old  problem  which  had  pre- 
sented itself  to  her  mind  twice  already,  and  the  same 
possible  over-scrupulosity  was  perplexing  her  now. 
However,  she  must  stop  thinking  about  it  for 
to-night.  She  had  come  to  an  end  of  these 
thoughts  so  far  as  she  could  muster  them  into 
shape,  and  it  was  not  the  least  particle  of  use  going 
over  them  again.  Her  brain  would  nm  rotmd 
like  a  squirrel  in  a  cage,  if  she  did.  And  Tibby 
was  not  with  her  to  open  the  cage  door,  as  she  had 
opened  it  for  Tibby.  Besides,  there  was  the 
other  trend  now. 

She  settled  herself  back  among  the  cushions, 
and  gazed  at  the  dancing  flames.  It  was  all  so 
wonderful,  so  gorgeously  vmexpected,  and  yet 
it  was  one  of  those  things  which  just  had  to  be. 


288  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

She  was  so  sure  of  that,  it  made  the  happening 
doubly  sweet.  It  was  exactly  as  if  she  had  been 
walking  all  her  life  through  a  quiet  wood,  a  wood 
where  the  sunshine  flickered  through  the  trees 
overhead  just  sufficiently  to  make  her  feel  quite 
certain  of  the  existence  of  the  sunshine,  and  then 
suddenly  she  had  come  out  into  its  full  warmth 
and  beauty  to  behold  a  perfect  landscape.  And 
she  knew  that  no  single  other  path  could  have  led 
her  to  this  place,  also  that  there  could  be  no  other 
prospect  as  beautiful  for  her. 

"When  did  you  first  know?"  she  had  asked  him. 
The  question  millions  of  women  have  asked  in 
their  time,  and  that  will  be  asked  by  millions 
more. 

"I  think,"  he  had  answered  smiling,  "it  was 
the  very  first  moment  you  came  into  the  room, 
looking  like  a  woodland  elf  in  your  green  frock. 
Anyhow  I  am  quite  certain  it  was  when  you  were — 
shall  we  say  a  trifle  snubbed  in  the  moonlight." 

"Ah,  poor  Pia,"  said  Trix. 

And  then  they  had  told  each  other  countless 
little  trivial  things,  things  of  no  earthly  import- 
ance to  any  one  but  their  two  selves,  things  ren- 
dered sweet,  not  so  much  by  the  words,  as  by  the 
tone  in  which  they  were  spoken.  It  had  been 
the  old,  old  story,  the  story  which  began  in  all  its 
first  beauty  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  before  the  devil 
had  entered  therein  with  his  wiles,  a  story  which 
even  now  ofttimes  holds  much  of  that  age-old 
wonderful   beauty.     And   the  stuffy,  fusty   rail- 


MIDNIGHT  REFLECTIONS  289 

way  carriage  had  not  in  the  least  diminished  the 
joy  of  the  telling. 

Trix  smiled  to  herself,   a  soft  little  radiant" 
smile. 

To-morrow  she  must  tell  Pia.  She  gave  a 
little  sigh.  It  would  seem  almost  cruel  to  let  her 
know  of  their  happiness. 

For  Trix's  own  happiness  to  be  without  flaw, 
it  was  invariably  necessary  that  others  should  be 
in  practically  the  same  state  of  bliss. 

19 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

SUNLIGHT  AND  HAPPINESS 

Sleep,  they  say,  brings  counsel.  Most  cer- 
tainly it  brought  counsel  to  Trix,  and  really  such 
simple  counsel  she  marvelled  that  she  had  not 
thought  of  it  before. 

After  all,  the  question  as  to  whether  she  should 
or  should  not  disclose  Antony  Gray's  identity  to 
Pia,  and  thereby  run  the  risk  either  of  tmtruth  or 
of  breaking  a  promise,  was  purely  a  question  of 
conscience.  Now,  in  a  question  of  conscience,  if 
you  cannot  decide  for  yourself,  it  is  always  safe 
to  consult  a  priest.  She  would  therefore  walk 
over  to  Byestry  after  breakfast — after  she  had 
told  Pia  her  own  particular  and  wonderful  news — 
and  consult  Father  Dormer.  It  would  be  quite 
easy  to  explain  matters  to  him  without  mentioning 
names. 

Trix  began  formulating  her  query  in  her  mind 
as  she  dressed.  By  the  time  this  process  was 
completed,  however,  she  had  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  she  was  not  altogether  sure  whether  it 

would  be  so  easy.     She  found  herself  getting  wound 

290 


SUNLIGHT  AND  HAPPINESS         291 

up  into  rather  extraordinary  knots.  Well,  any- 
how she  would  explain  somehow,  and  no  doubt 
words  would  come  when  she  was  actually  con-' 
fronted  with  him.  Besides,  it  was  never  the  smallest 
use  arranging  conversations  beforehand,  like  a 
French  conversation  book,  because  people  never 
gave  the  right  answers  to  your  questions,  and 
never  put  the  questions  to  which  you  had  the 
answers  ready. 

Trix  crossed  slowly  to  the  window.  There 
had  been  a  frost  in  the  night,  and  the  lower  part  of 
the  window-pane  was  covered  with  magic  fern 
fronds,  while  lawn  and  shrubs  were  clothed  with  a 
light  white  veil. 

Suddenly  the  sun  came  up  behind  the  distant 
hills,  a  glowing  ball  of  fire,  sending  forth  his  ruddy 
beams  till  they  struck  clean  through  the  window, 
turning  the  fern  fronds  to  ruby  jewels,  and  making 
of  the  frost  veil  without  a  web  of  diamonds. 

"That,"  breathed  Trix  softly,  "is  what  hap- 
pened to  us  yesterday. " 

And  she  knelt  down  quite  suddenly  by  the  win- 
dow. 

The  breakfast  hour  at  the  Manor  House  was, 
ordinarily  speaking,  most  punctually  at  nine 
o'clock,  but  owing,  doubtless,  to  some  sHght 
hitch  in  the  lower  regions,  the  gong  that  morning 
did  not  sound  till  a  quarter  past  the  hour.  This 
delay  gave  Miss  Tibbutt  time  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance not  more  than  two  minutes  late,  and  saved 


292  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

any  necessary  explanation  regarding  her  early  walk 
to  Byestry.  As  it  was  really  on  Pia's  account 
that  she  had  gone  to  Mass,  she  wished  to  avoid 
mentioning  that  she  had  been.  Of  course  Pia 
could  not  possibly  have  guessed  the  real  motive, 
but  Miss  Tibbutt  had  a  feeling,  which  reason 
told  her  to  be  quite  foolish,  that  in  some  odd  way 
she  might  guess.  And  she  did  not  want  her  to 
guess. 

"What  is  the  plan  of  campaign  to-day?"  asked 
the  Duchessa,  as  they  assembled  in  the  morning 
room  after  breakfast. 

Trix  examined  an  ornament  on  the  mantelpiece 
with  rather  studied  care. 

"I  was  thinking  of  walking  over  to  Byestry, 
this  morning,"  she  remarked. 

"All  right,"  agreed  the  Duchessa,  "and  after 
lunch  we  will  have  the  car.  It  is  cold,  but  too  good 
a  day  to  be  wasted. " 

Trix  had  a  moment's  anxiety. 

"We  shan't  be  late  for  tea?"  she  queried. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  responded  Pia.  "The 
days  are  too  short  now.     But  why  ? ' ' 

Trix  put  down  the  ornament  she  was  exam- 
ining. 

"Doctor  Hilary  is  coming  to  tea,"  she  an- 
nounced carelessly,  though  she  knew  perfectly 
well  that  the  colour  was  rising  in  her  cheeks. 

Pia  looked  at  her. 

"Trix!"  she  said. 

"Yes,  darling,"  nodded  Trix,  "just  that." 


SUNLIGHT  AND  HAPPINESS  293 

"Oh,  my  Trix!"  cried  Pia  delighted,  putting 
her  arms  round  her. 

Miss  Tibbutt  looked  a  trifle  bewildered. 

"What  is  it?"  she  demanded 

Pia  laughed. 

"These  two,"  she  said,  "Trix  and  Doctor 
Hilary.  I  told  you,  you  remember,  and  said 
there  were  trains,  though  I  never  dreamed  they 
would  be  utiHzed  quite  so  literally.  Of  course  it 
was  yesterday  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  nodded  Trix  again.  And  then  with  a 
huge  sigh,  "Oh,  Pia,  I  am  so  happy." 

Pia  turned  her  round  towards  Miss  Tibbutt. 

"Tibby,  look  at  her  face,  and  then  she  tells 
us  she  is  happy,  as  though  it  were  necessary  to 
advertise  the  fact  to  our  slow  intelligences. " 

Trix  laughed,  though  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 
Laughter  and  tears  are  amazingly  close  together 
at  times. 

"And  is  it  quite  necessary  to  walk  to  Byestry 
this  morning?"  teased  Pia.  "He  will  probably 
be  on  his  rounds,  you  know. " 

Again  Trix  laughed,  this  time  without  the  tears. 

"I  am  not  proposing  to  sit  in  his  pocket,"  she 
remarked.  "He  did  not  happen  to  suggest  that  I 
should,  and  it  certainly  never  occurred  to  me  to 
suggest  it. " 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

TRIX  SEEKS  ADVICE 

Trix  walked  along  the  road  from  Woodleigh  to 
Byestry  in  infinitely  too  happy  a  state  of  mind  to 
think  consistently  of  any  one  thing.  She  did  not 
even  think  precisely  definitely  of  the  man  who  had 
caused  this  happiness.  She  knew  only  that  the 
happiness  was  there. 

The  hoar  frost  still  lay  thickly  on  the  hedges 
and  the  grass  by  the  roadside.  The  frost  finger 
had  outlined  the  twigs,  the  blades  of  grass,  the 
veins  of  dried  leaves  with  the  deUcate  precision 
nature  alone  can  achieve.  At  one  spot  a  tiny 
rivulet,  arrested  by  the  ice-king  in  its  course  from 
a  field  and  down  a  bank,  hung  in  long  gHstening 
icicles  from  jutting  stones  and  frozen  earth.  Now 
and  again  her  own  footfall  struck  sharp  and 
metallic  on  the  hard  road.  The  sky  was  cloudless, 
a  clear,  cold  blue.  A  robin  trilled  its  sweet,  sad 
song  to  her  from  a  frosted  bough. 

It  was  all  amazingly  like  a  frosted  Christmas 
card,  thought  Trix,  those  Christmas  cards  her 
soul  had  adored  in  her  childish  days,  and  yet 

294 


■  TRIX  SEEKS  ADVICE  295 

which,  oddly  enough,  always  brought  with  them  a 
sentimental  touch  of  sadness.  Many  things  had 
brought  this  odd  happy  sadness  to  Trix  as  a  child, 
— the  sound  of  church  bells  across  water,  fire-Ught 
gleaming  in  the  darkness  from  the  uncurtained 
windows  of  some  house,  the  moon  shining  on  snow, 
a  solitary  tree  backgrounded  by  a  grey  sky,  or  a 
flight  of  rooks  at  sunset. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  eleven  or  thereabouts  when 
she  reached  Byestry,  and  she  made  her  way  at  once 
to  the  little  white-washed,  thatched  presbytery, 
separated  from  the  road  by  a  small  front  garden. 

Trix  walked  up  the  path,  and  rang  the  bell. 
Father  Dormer  was  at  home,  so  his  housekeeper 
annoimced,  and  she  was  shown  into  a  small  square 
room  with  a  round  table  in  the  centre,  and  a  vase 
of  bronze  chrysanthemimis  on  the  table. 

Trix  sat  down  and  began  to  try  and  arrange 
her  ideas.  She  was  by  now  perfectly  well  aware 
that  they  were  not  only  rather  difficult  to  arrange, 
but  would  be  infinitely  more  difficult  to  express. 
She  sighed  once  or  twice  rather  heavily,  gazing 
thoughtfully  at  the  bronze  chrysanthemums  the 
while,  as  if  seeking  inspiration  from  their  feathery 
brown  faces.  And  then  the  door  opened  and 
Father  Dormer  came  in  in  his  cassock,  which  he 
always  wore  in  the  morning. 

"It  is  an  unexpected  pleasure  to  see  you,  Miss 
Devereux,"  he  said.     "Please  sit  down  again." 

Trix  sat  down,  and  so  did  Father  Dormer. 

"I  only  arrived  yesterday,"  said  Trix,  "and  I 


296  ANTON  Y  GRA  Y,— GARDENER 

came  over  to  see  you  this  morning  because  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  something  rather  particular." 
Trix  was  feeling  just  a  little  nervous,  she  was  also 
feeHng  that  if  she  did  not  open  the  subject  immedi- 
.  ately,  it  was  quite  possible  that  she  might  leave  the 
presbj^ery  without  having  done  so,  despite  all  her 
preconceived  intentions. 

"Yes,"  smiled  Father  Dormer.  He  was  per- 
fectly well  aware  that  she  was  feeling  a  trifle  nerv- 
ous. 

"Well,"  said  Trix,  "it  isn't  going  to  be  quite 

easy  to  explain,  because  I  can't  mention  names. 

.  But  as  it  is  a  thing  I  can't  make  up  my  mind 

about, — about  the  right  or  wrong  of  doing  it,  I 

mean, — I  thought  I'd  ask  your  advice." 

"That  is  always  at  your  service,"  he  assured  | 
her  as  she  stopped. 

Trix  heaved  a  little  sigh.  She  leant  forward 
in  her  chair,  and  rested  her  hands  on  the  table. 

"Well  then,  Father,  it's  like  this.  I  know 
something  about  someone  which  another  person 
doesn't  know,  and  I  think  it  is  rather  important 
that  they  should  know  it.  The  first  person  doesn't 
know  I  know  it,  and  mightn't  quite  Uke  it  if  they 
knew  I  knew  it.  Also  I  am  pretty  sure  that  they 
don't  want  any  one  else  to  know  it.  But  imder 
the  circumstances  I  think  I'm  justified  in  telling 
the  second  person,  because  it  isn't  a  thing  like  a 
scandal,  or  anything  like  that.  But  the  difficulty 
is,  that  in  telling  the  second  person  about  the 
first  person,  I  may  either  have  to  tell  lies,  or  dis- 


TRIX  SEEKS  ADVICE  297 

close  a  secret  about  a  third  person,  and  that  is  a 
secret  I  have  promised  not  to  tell.  Do  you  think 
I  ought  to  take  the  risk?" 

Father  Dormer  listened  attentively. 

"Do  you  mind  saying  it  again,"  he  asked 
politely  as  she  ended.  There  was  just  the  faintest 
possible  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

Trix  laughed  outright. 

"Oh,  Father,  don't  try  to  be  polite,"  she  urged. 
"I  know  it  is  the  muddliest  kind  of  explanation 
that  ever  existed.  Can't  you  suggest  some  way  of 
making  it  clearer?" 

"Supposing, "  he  said,  "you  call  the  first  person 
A,  the  second  B,  and  the  third  one  C.  And  let  me 
know  first  exactly  your  position  towards  A." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Trix  cheerfully.  "And 
even  supposing  you  guess  the  tiniest  bit  what  I  am 
talking  about,  you  won't  let  yourself  guess,  will 
you?" 

Father  Dormer  assured  her  that  he  would  not. 
He  certainly  felt  she  need  have  no  smallest  anxiety 
on  that  score,  having  in  view  her  own  method  of 
explanation,  but  he  tactfully  refrained  from  saying 
so. 

"Well,"  began  Trix  again,  and  rather  slowly, 
"A  has  a  secret.  He  doesn't  know  I  know  it,  and 
I  found  it  out  quite  by  accident.  He  hasn't  said  it 
is  a  secret,  but  I  know  it  is,  because  nobody  else 
knows  about  it.  Well,  B  knows  A,  but  doesn't 
know  A's  secret,  and  because  she  doesn't  know  A's 
secret  she  is  imhappy  about  A's  conduct,  whereas 


298  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

if  she  knew  the  secret  I  am  pretty  sure  she  woxildn't 
be  so  unhappy.  And  A  need  never  know  B  does 
know,  even  if  I  tell  her.  And  I  feel  sure  from  A's 
point  of  view  it  would  not  matter  telling  B,  while 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  B  to  know.  But,  in 
order  to  tell  her,  I  may  have  to  let  her  know  how 
I  learnt  A's  secret,  and  in  doing  that  I  should 
possibly  have  to  tell  Hes,  or  let  her  know  C's  secret, 
which  I  promised  not  to  tell.  Because  it  was  in 
meeting  A  that  I  found  it  out.  Of  course  I  may 
not  have  to  do  either,  but  there  is  the  risk.  Do  you 
think  I  can  take  it?  And  is  the  matter  quite 
clear  now?" 

Father  Dormer  smiled. 

"I  think  I  have  grasped  it,"  he  said.  "Well, 
in  the  first  place,  it  isn't  a  matter  of  life  and  death, 
is  it?" 

"Oh  no,"  saidTrix. 

"Then  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn*t  take  any  risk 
about  telling  Hes. " 

"No,"  said  Trix  relieved,  "I  thought  I  had 
better  not.     But  then  there  is  C's  secret." 

"Let  us  take  A's  secret  first,"  suggested  Father 
Dormer.  "You  feel  quite  sure  it  is  important  to 
let  B  know  it,  and  that  you  are  justified  in  dis- 
closing it?" 

Trix  reflected. 

"I  feel  quite  sure  it  is  important  B  should 
know,"  she  said.  "And  I  feel  pretty  stu*e  I  am 
justified  in  disclosing  it.  At  first  I  thought  per- 
haps I  ought  not  to  do  so.     But  I  know  B  won't 


TRIX  SEEKS  ADVICE  299 

tell  any  one  else,  so  it  can't  matter  her  knowing  as 
well  as  me.  No;  I  am  sure  it  can't,"  ended  Trix 
decidedly. 

"Then,"  said  Father  Dormer,  "your  best  plan 
will  be  to  ask  C  to  release  you  from  your  promise.  '* 

Trix  started. 

"Oh,  but — "  she  began.  She  shook  her  head. 
"I  don't  believe  he  would  ever  release  me,"  she 
said. 

"You  could  ask  him,  anyhow,"  said  Father 
Dormer. 

"Yes,  I  could,"  replied  Trix  doubtfully. 

"Try  that  first,"  he  suggested.  "It  is  the 
simplest  plan. " 

"Yes,"  said  Trix  still  doubtfully. 

Of  course  it  sounded  the  simplest  plan  to  Father 
Dormer,  but  then  he  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of 
what  the  secret  was,  nor  whom  it  concerned. 

"You  see,"  said  Trix  thoughtfully,  "he  knows 
A's  secret  too;  at  least,  I  feel  sure  he  does. " 

"Perhaps,"  smiled  Father  Dormer,  "it  is  not 
quite  such  a  secret  as  you  imagine. " 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  nodded  Trix.  "It  is  the 
most  complicated  affair  that  ever  was,  and  the 
most  extraordinary.  Nobody  would  believe  it  if 
they  didn't  know."     She  sighed. 

Father  Dormer  watched  her.  He  saw  that  she 
evidently  did  consider  it  a  complicated  situation, 
though,  in  spite  of  her  rather  complicated  explana- 
tion it  had  appeared  quite  simple  to  him.  At  all 
events,  the  solution  had.     It  had  not  even — ^as 


300  ANTON Y  GRA Y— GARDENER 

soon  as  he  had  grasped  the  question  she  had  come 
to  ask — appeared  to  involve  much  difficulty  of 
answering.  It  was  quite  obvious  she  ought  not  to 
run  the  risk  of  telling  lies  (he  could  guess  that  her 
honesty  would  make  it  exceedingly  difficult  for 
her  to  evade  any  awkward  questions  without 
telling  them),  mainly  because  it  was  never  right 
to  tell  Hes,  but  also  because  the  smallest  white 
one — so-called — would  appear  extremely  black 
to  Trix. 

"Is  that  settled  now?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes, "  said  Trix.  She  looked  at  her  watch. 
"I've  two  hours;  I  had  better  do  it  at  once." 
Then  she  stopped  suddenly.  "Oh,  Father!" 
she  exclaimed. 

"Well?"  he  queried. 

"You  didn't  guess,  did  you?" 

"How  could  I?"  he  asked  smiling. 

"Oh,  because  saying  that  told  you  that  C  lived 
here." 

He  laughed.  "My  dear  child,  when  you  arrive 
at  Woodleigh  one  day,  and  ask  me  a  rather  com- 
plicated question  the  next,  it  is  perfectly  obvious  it 
is  one  which  has  to  be  settled  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, and  at  once.  I  could  hardly  imagine  you 
have  travelled  down  here  on  purpose  to  consult 
me;  or  that,  if  it  were  a  question  to  be  settled  in 
town,  you  would  not  wait  till  yoiu*  return  to  con- 
sult some  other  priest  on  the  subject. " 

Trix  smiled. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  owned.     "But, 


TRIX  SEEKS  ADVICE  301 

of  course,  it  is  quite  obvious.  Only  I  am  so  afraid 
of  breaking  my  promise. " 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  by  now.  He  held 
out  his  hand. 

"I  would  not  worry  about  that,  if  I  were  you. 
You  have  not  broken  it  in  the  smallest  degree. 
But  now  go  and  get  leave  to  break  it,  if  you  can, 
and  set  your  mind  at  rest. " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AN   AMAZING   SUGGESTION 

The  avenue  and  garden  were  quite  deserted  as 
Trix  approached  Chorley  Old  Hall.  The  lawn  was 
one  great  sheet  of  imbroken  whiteness,  flanked  by 
frosted  yew  hedges,  and  very  desolate. 

She  passed  quickly  along  the  terrace  towards 
the  front  door,  feeling  almost  as  if  spying  eyes 
were  watching  her  from  behind  the  curtained 
windows.  She  took  hold  of  the  hanging  iron  bell- 
handle  and  pulled  it,  its  coldness  striking  through 
her  glove  with  an  icy  chill.  She  heard  its  clang  in 
some  far-off  region,  yet  oddly  loud  in  the  dead 
silence.  Involuntarily  she  shivered,  partly  with 
the  cold,  and  partly  with  a  sudden  sense  of  nerv- 
ousness. 

A  second  or  two  passed.  Trix  stared  hard  at 
the  brass  knocker  on  the  door,  trying  to  still  the 
nervousness  which  possessed  her.  There  came  a 
sound  of  steps  in  the  hall,  and  the  door  was  opened. 

"Can  I  see  Mr.  Danver?"  asked  Trix. 

Jessop  stared,  visibly  startled. 

"It  is  all  right,"  said  Trix  quickly.  "Don't 
you  remember  I  had  tea  here  last  August?" 

302 


AN  AMAZING  SUGGESTION  303 

Jessop's  face  relaxed,  but  he  looked  a  trifle 
dubious. 

"I  don't  think—"  he  began. 

Trix  raised  her  chin. 

"Go  and  ask  him, "  she  said  with  slight  author- 
ity.    "I  will  wait  in  the  hall." 

Jessop  departed,  to  retiun  after  a  minute. 

"Will  you  come  this  way,  please,  Madam." 

Nicholas  Danver  looked  at  her  as  she  entered, 
an  odd  expression  on  his  face. 

He  might  never  have  moved  from  his  chair  since 
the  day  she  had  last  seen  him,  thought  Trix.  The 
only  difference  in  the  surroundings  was  a  craclding 
wood  fire  now  biuning  on  the  big  hearth. 

"Well,  Miss  Devereux,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

"You  don't  mind  my  having  come?"  queried 
Trix.     "No  one  saw  me." 

'    A  slight  look  of  relief  passed  over  Nicholas's 
face. 

"I  think  I  am  glad  you've  come,"  he  said. 
"Sit  down,  please." 

Trix  sat  down.  Her  hands  were  tightly  clasped 
within  her  muff.  She  was  still  beating  back  that 
quite  unaccoimtable  nervousness. 

"You.  had  a  particular  reason  for  coming  to  see 
me?"  suggested  Nicholas. 

Trix  nodded. 

"Yes;  I  am  in  rather  a  difficulty.  You  are 
the  only  person  who  can  help  me." 


304  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Nicholas  laughed  shortly. 

"It  is  an  odd  experience  to  be  told  that  I  can 
be  of  service  to  any  one,"  he  said.     "  What  is  it?  '* 

Trix  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Mr.  Danver,  I  want  you  to  release  me  from  my 
promise." 

Nicholas's  eyes  narrowed  suddenly.  A  little 
gleam,  like  the  spark  from  iron  striking  flint, 
flashed  from  them. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  coldly. 

Trix's  heart  chilled  at  the  tone. 

"I  must  try  and  explain,"  she  said.  "In  the 
first  place,  of  course  you  know  who  your  under- 
gardener  really  is?" 

Nicholas  stared  at  her. 

"  May  I  ask  what  that  has  got  to  do  with  you?  " 

"Well,  I  know  too,  you  see,"  said  Trix,  feeUng 
her  heart  beginning  to  beat  still  more  quickly. 

"  How  do  you  know?  What  questions  have  you 
been  asking?" 

Trix  flushed. 

"I  haven't  asked  any  questions,"  she  said 
quickly.  "I  saw  him  the  day  I  came  here  before. 
I  knew  his  face  then,  but  I  couldn't  remember  who 
he  was.  Afterwards  I  remembered  I  used  to  play 
with  him  when  I  was  a  child." 

"Well?"  queried  Nicholas  briefly. 

"Well,"  echoed  Trix  desperately,  "I  want  to 
be  able  to  tell  someone  he  is  Antony  Gray,  and  not 
Michael  Field.  It  is  really  very  important  that 
they  should  know,  important  for  their  happiness. 


AN  AMAZING  SUGGESTION  305 

But  if  I  tell,  they  may  want  to  know  where  I  saw 
him,  and  ask  questions  which  might  lead  to  my 
either  having  to  tell  lies  or  betray  your  secret.  If 
it  becomes  necessary,  may  I  betray  your  secret? 
Will  you  release  me  from  my  promise?" 

Nicholas's  hand  clenched  tightly  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair. 

"  Most  certainly  not, "  he  replied  shortly. 

The  tone  was  utterly  final.  Trix  felt  the  old 
childish  fear  of  him  surging  over  her.  It  was 
quite  different  from  the  nervousness  she  had  just 
been  experiencing,  and,  oddly  enough,  it  gave  her  a 
kind  of  desperate  courage.  She  had  no  intention 
of  accepting  his  refusal  without  a  struggle. 

"I  wouldn't  tell  imless  it  became  absolutely 
necessary, "  she  urged. 

"It  never  can  be  absolutely  necessary,"  he 
retorted.  "It  would  be  no  more  dishonourable  to 
tell  a  He  than  break  a  promise. " 

Trix  went  scarlet. 

"  I  never  had  the  smallest  intention  of  doing 
either,"  she  repHed.  "If  I  had,  I  need  not  have 
troubled  to  come  up  here  and  ask  you  to  release 
me  from  my  promise." 

Nicholas  drummed  his  fingers  on  a  small  table 
near  him. 

"Well,  you've  had  my  answer,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  perfectly  adamantine.  Trix 
felt  as  if  she  were  up  against  a  piece  of  rock.  She 
knew  it  was  useless  to  pursue  the  subject  further, 
yet  for  Pia's  sake  she  tried  again. 


306  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

"Mr.  Danver,  why  do  you  want  everyone  to 
think  you're  dead? "  There  was  something  almost 
childish  in  the  way  she  put  the  question. 

Nicholas  laughed. 

"  Partly,  my  dear  young  lady,  for  my  own  amuse- 
ment, but  largely  for  a  scheme  I  have  on  hand." 

Trix  leant  forward. 

"Is  the  scheme  really  important?"  she  queried, 
her  eyes  on  his  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  watching  her. 
"But  my  amusement  is." 

"Amusement,"  said  Trix  slowly. 

**Yes,  my  amusement,"  he  repeated  mockingly. 
"I've  had  none  for  fifteen  years.  For  fifteen 
years  I  have  lived  here  like  a  log,  alone,  solitary. 
Now  I've  got  a  little  amusement  in  pretending 
to  be  dead. " 

Trix  shook  her  head.  It  sounded  quite  mad. 
Then  she  remembered  Doctor  Hilary's  words  to 
her  when  she  had  met  him  at  the  gates  of  Chorley 
Old  Hall  last  August.  He  knew  it  was  mad, 
but  it  was  saving  Nicholas  from  being  atrophied, 
so  he  had  said.  To  Trix's  mind  at  least  a  dozen 
more  satisfactory  ways  might  have  been  found  to 
accomplish  that  end.  But  every  man  to  his  own 
taste.  Also  it  was  quite  possible  that  a  brain 
which  had  been  atrophied,  or  practically  atrophied 
for  fifteen  years,  was  not  particularly  capable 
of  conceiving  anything  more  enlivening. 

"But  you  needn't  have  been  a  log  for  fifteen 
years, "  she  said  suddenly. 


AN  AMAZING  SUGGESTION  307 

"Needn't  I?"  he  retorted.  "Look  at  me.'* 
He  made  a  gesture  towards  his  helpless  legs. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  your  body,"  said  Trix 
calmly.     "I  was  thinking  of  your  mind." 

Nicholas's  face  hardened. 

"And  so  was  I,"  he  replied,  "when  I  preferred 
to  sit  here  like  a  log,  rather  than  face  the  prying 
sympathy  of  my  fellow-humans." 

"Oh!"  said  Trix  softly,  a  Hght  of  illumination 
breaking  in  upon  her.  "But,  Mr.  Danver,  sym- 
pathy isn't  always  prying." 

"Bah!"  he  retorted.  "Prying  or  not,  I  didn't 
want  it.  Staring  eyes,  condoling  words,  and  mock- 
ery in  their  hearts !  'He  got  what  he  deserved  for 
his  madness,'  they'd  have  said." 

Trix  leant  forward,  putting  her  hands  on  the 
table. 

"Mr.  Danver,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "if  you 
were  a  younger  man,  or  I  were  an  older  woman,  I'd 
say  you  were — ^well,  quite  remarkably  foolish." 

Nicholas  chuckled.     He  liked  this. 

"You  might  forget  oiu*  respective  ages  for  a 
few  moments, "  he  suggested,  "that  is,  if  you  have 
anything  enlivening  to  say. " 

"I  don't  know  about  it  being  enlivening," 
remarked  Trix  calmly,  "but  I  have  got  quite  a 
good  deal  to  say." 

"Say  it  then,"  chuckled  Nicholas. 

Trix  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Mr.  Danver,  did  you  ever  care  for  any  one?" 

Nicholas's  eyes  blazed  suddenlv. 


3o8  ANTONY  GRAY, --GARDENER 

"What  the  devil — "  he  began.  "I  beg  your 
pardon.     I  gave  you  leave  to  speak." 

Trix  waved  her  hand. 

"I  was  talking  about  men, "  she  said,  "men  pals. 
Were  there  any  you  ever  cared  about?" 

Nicholas  laughed  shortly 

"Your  father,  my  dear  young  lady,  and  Richard 
Gray,  father  of  the  man  who  has  led  to  this 
interesting  discussion." 

"They  were  really  your  friends?"  queried  Trix. 

"The  best  fellows  that  ever  stepped,"  said 
Nicholas  with  unwonted  enthusiasm. 

Trix  nodded.  Her  eyes  were  shining.  She 
was  thinking  of  her  aunt's  disclosure  regarding 
this  Richard  Gray. 

"And  I  suppose, "  she  said  coolly,  "you  rejoiced 
when  Richard  Gray  lost  his  money?  You  laughed 
at  him  for  a  fool?" 

Nicholas  stared  at  her. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "I 
never  knew  he  had  lost  money.  I  would  have 
given  my  right  hand  to  help  him  if  I  had  known. " 

"He  did  lose  money,"  said  Trix.  "But  that's 
beside  the  point.  You'd  have  helped  him  if  you 
could?     You  wouldn't  have  jeered  at  him?" 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?"  asked  Nicholas 
half  angrily. 

Trix  looked  very  straight  at  him. 

"Only  what  you  take  others  for,  Mr.  Danver." 

There  was  a  dead  silence. 

"Listen,"   said  Trix  suddenly.     "You  would 


AN  AMAZING  SUGGESTION  309 

have  been  generous  to  him,  because  you  cared  for 
him.  Do  you  really  think  you  are  the  only  gener- 
ous friend?" 

Nicholas  looked  at  her.  There  was  a  gleam  of 
laughter  in  his  eyes. 

"It  strikes  me  you  are  a  very  shrewd  young 
woman,"  he  said. 

"It's  only  logical  common  sense,"  declared 
Trix  stoutly. 

Once  more  there  fell  a  silence,  a  silence  in 
which  Nicholas  was  watching  the  girl  opposite  to 
him. 

"Mr.  Danver,  will  you  tell  me  exactly  what 
amusement  you  found  in  all  this?  What  origin- 
ated the  idea  in  your  mind?"  Her  voice  was 
pleading. 

For  a  moment  Nicholas  was  silent. 

"Yes,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I  will  teU  you." 

It  was  not  a  long  story,  and  to  Trix  it  was 
oddly  pathetic.  It  was  the  mixtiu'e  partly  of 
regret,  partly  the  desire  of  justice  to  be  adminis- 
tered to  his  property  after  his  death,  and  partly 
the  queer  mad  love  of  pranks  which  had  been  the 
keynote  of  his  nature,  and  which  had  stirred  again 
within  the  half-dead  body.  He  told  it  all  very 
simply,  baldly  almost,  and  yet  he  could  not  quite 
hide  a  certain  queer  wistfulness  underlying  it, 
the  wistfulness  of  pride  which  has  built  barriers 
too  strong  for  it,  and  yet  from  which  it  longs  to 
escape. 

"I  thought  Antony  Gray  could  have  a  taste  of 


310  ANTON Y  GRA  Y,— GARDENER 

living  as  one  of  the  people, "  he  ended.  "  Perhaps 
it  would  make  him  a  better  master  than  I  had 
been.    And  then  the  scheme  took  shape. " 

"I  see,"  said  Trix  slowly  and  thoughtfully. 

"WeU?"  queried  Nicholas. 

Trix  looked  up  at  him.  Her  lips  were  smiling, 
but  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  understand,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  I  under- 
stand ever  so  much  better  than  you  think.  But — 
but  has  it  been  worth  it?" 

Nicholas  looked  towards  the  fire. 

"After  the  first  planning,  I  don*t  honestly 
know  that  it  has,"  he  said.  "A  thing  falls  flat 
with  no  one  to  share  it  with  you.  And  Hilary 
never  really  approved. " 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  and  again  the  odd 
pathos,  the  childishness  of  the  whole  thing  stirred 
Trix's  heart.  She  said  she  understood,  and  she 
did  understand  more  profoundly  than  Nicholas 
could  possibly  have  conceived.  In  the  few  seconds 
of  silence  which  followed,  she  reviewed  those  soli- 
tary years  in  an  amazingly  quick  mental  process. 
She  saw  first  the  pride  which  had  built  the  barrier, 
and  then  the  slow  stagnation  behind  it.  She 
realized  the  two  sentences  which  had  penetrated 
the  barrier  (he  had  been  perfectly  candid  in  his 
story)  without  being  able  to  destroy  it,  and  then 
the  faint  stirrings  of  life  within  the  almost  stag- 
nant mind.  And  the  result  had  been  this  perfectly 
mad  scheme, — the  thought  of  a  foolish  boy  con- 
ceived and  carried  out  by  the  obstinate  mind  of 


AN  AMAZING  SUGGESTION  311 

a  man;  a  scheme  childish,  foolish,  mad,  and  of 
value  only  in  so  far  as  it  had  roused  to  faint  life 
the  mind  of  the  lonely  man  who  had  conceived  it. 

And  now  he  had  tired  of  it.  It  had  become  to 
him  as  valueless  as  a  flimsy  toy;  and  yet  he  clung 
to  it  rather  than  leave  himself  with  empty  hands. 
Without  it,  he  had  absolutely  nothing  to  interest 
him, — a  past  on  which  it  hurt  him  to  dwell  by  rea- 
son of  its  contrast  with  the  present ;  a  present  as 
lonely  almost  as  that  of  a  prisoner  in  solitary  con- 
finement; and  a  future  which  to  him  was  a  mere 
blank,  a  grey  nothingness. 

Trix  shivered  involuntarily. 

"And  the  fact  remains,  that  I  am  dead,"  said 
Nicholas  with  a  grim  smile. 

Trix  turned  suddenly  towards  him. 

"Unless  you  have  a  sort  of  resurrection,"  she 
said. 

Nicholas  stared. 

"Listen,"  said  Trix. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

TRIX  TRIUMPHANT 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  Trix  departed, 
exultant,  rejoicing. 

Nicholas  sat  staring  at  the  chair  she  had  just 
vacated.  He  had  been  bewitched,  utterly  be- 
witched, and  he  knew  it.  Her  vitality,  her  insist- 
ence had  carried  him  with  her  despite  himself, 
— that  and  an  odd  under-current  of  something  he 
could  not  entirely  explain.  He  might  have  called 
it  faith,  only  it  was  not  faith  as  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  think  of  it,  when  he  thought  at 
all.  It  was  so  infinitely  more  alive  and  personal. 
And  yet  she  had  only  once  touched  on  what  he 
would  have  termed  religion. 

"You've  wandered  entirely  from  the  object  of 
your  visit, "  he  had  remarked  at  one  point  in  the 
conversation,  "and  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see 
why  you  are  taking  this  extraordinary  interest  in 
what  you  consider  my  welfare.  What  on  earth 
can  it  matter  to  any  one  else,  how  I  choose  to  Uve 
myHfe?" 

"Ah,  but  it  does  matter,"  she  had  answered 
312 


TRIX  TRIUMPHANT  313 

earnestly,  "it  matters  quite  supremely.  I  know 
we  often  pretend  to  ourselves  that  it  doesn't  in  the 
least  matter  how  we  live  our  lives  so  long  as  we 
don't  commit  actual  sin;  but  we  can't  isolate  our- 
selves- from  others  without  loss  to  them  and  to 
ourselves. " 

"How  about  monks  and  nuns,  who  shut  them- 
selves up,  and  never  see  their  fellow-creatures  at 
all?"  he  had  retorted,  greatly  pleased  with  himself 
for  the  retort. 

Trix  had  opened  eyes  of  wonder. 

"The  contemplative  orders!  Why,  Mr.  Dan- 
ver,  they're  the  cog-wheels  of  the  whole  machin- 
ery. They  only  keep  their  bodies  apart  that  their 
minds  may  be  more  free.  Nobody  has  the  good 
of  mankind  so  much  at  heart  as  a  contemplative. 
They  are  keeping  the  machinery  going  by  prayer 
the  whole  time." 

The  utter  conviction  in  her  words  was  immis- 
takable.  For  an  odd  flashing  moment  he  had  had 
something  like  a  mental  vision  of  an  irresistible 
force  pouring  forth  from  those  closed  houses,  a 
force  like  the  force  of  a  great  river,  carrying  all 
things  wdth  it,  and  with  healing  virtue  in  its  waters. 
The  thought  was  utterly  foreign  to  him.  But  it 
had  been  there. 

"I  am  not  much  of  a  believer  in  prayer,"  he 
had  said  dryly.  He  had  expected  her  to  ask  if  he 
had  ever  tried  it.     She  had  not  done  so. 

"Most  of  us  do  it  so  badly,"  she  had  said 
with  a  little  sigh,  "but  they  don't. "    And  then  she 


314  ANTONY  GRAY, --GARDENER 

had  flashed  a  glance  of  amusement  at  him.  "Did 
you  ever  hear  of  the  story  of  the  old  lady  who  said 
she  was  going  to  pray  one  night  with  entire  faith 
that  the  hill  beyond  her  garden  might  be  removed? 
In  the  morning  she  found  it  still  there.  *  I  knew 
it  would  be!  *  said  the  old  lady  triumphantly." 

Nicholas  joined  in  her  laugh,  but  somewhat 
grimly. 

"We're  all  like  that,"  he  said. 

Trix  shook  her  head. 

"Not  all,  mercifully;  but  a  good  many."  And 
then  she  had  returned  to  her  former  charge. 

Well,  she  had  ended  by  bewitching  him,  and 
the  queer  thing  was  he  was  quite  glad  of  the 
bewitchment.  Now  and  again  he  pulled  himself 
up  with  a  jerk  and  a  muttered  word  or  two  of  irri- 
tation; but  it  was  all  a  pretence,  and  he  knew  it. 
There  was  an  odd  excitement  pulsing  at  his  heart ; 
despite  his  age  and  crippled  state,  he  was  feehng 
boyishly,  absurdly  young.  For  the  first  time  for 
fifteen  years  he  was  looking  forward  to  the  morrow 
with  pleasure. 

^He  began  to  consider  his  programme.  It  was 
entirely  simple.  First  there  was  Antony  Gray  to 
be  interviewed.  She  had  insisted  on  that.  It  was 
due  to  him  to  be  given  an  entire,  full,  and  detailed 
account  of  the  whole  business,  so  she  had  decreed. 
Nicholas  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the  thought. 
There  was  just  a  question  in  his  mind  as  to  how  the 
young  man  might  regard  the  matter.  Secondly, 
there  was  to  be  a  tea-party  in  the  library,  at  which 


TRIX  TRIUMPHANT  315 

Trix,  the  Duchessa,  Miss  Tibbutt,  Antony,  and 
Doctor  Hilary  were  to  be  present.  After  that — 
well,  events  might  take  their  own  course.  The 
villagers  get  to  hear?  Let  them.  Any  amoimt  of 
gossip?  Of  course,  what  did  he  expect?  Any- 
how he'd  be  a  benefactor  to  mankind  in  giving 
poor,  dull  little  Byestry  something  more  interest- 
ing to  talk  about  than  the  latest  baby's  first  tooth, 
or  the  last  injustice  of  Mr.  Curtis.  Yes ;  she  meant 
it.  Mr.  Curtis  was  unjust,  and  the  sooner  Mr. 
Danver  got  rid  of  him  and  put  Antony  Gray  in  his 
place  the  better  it  would  be  for  everyone  con- 
cerned. And  if  he  wanted  a  really  dramatic 
moment  he  had  better  have  Mr.  Curtis  up,  and 
inform  him  that  his  services  were  no  longer 
needed,  and  introduce  him  to  the  new  agent  at 
the  same  time.  Trix  only  wished  she  could  be 
present  at  the  interview,  but  Mr.  Danver  would 
have  to  describe  it  to  her  in  the  minutest  detail. 

It  is  not  at  all  certain  that  the  thought  of 
this  interview,  suggested  before  Trix  had  wrung 
the  final  promise  from  him,  did  not  go  a  remark- 
ably long  way  towards  extracting  that  promise. 
The  idea  appealed  to  Nicholas.  In  the  first  place 
there  would  be  the  agent's  profound  amazement 
at  the  fact  that  Nicholas  was  not  lying,  as  he  had 
supposed,  in  the  tomb  of  his  ancestors;  in  the 
second  place  there  would  be  his  discomfiture  in 
realizing  that  Nicholas  had  been  entirely  aware 
of  his  own  movements,  and  the  small  act  of  petty 
spite  towards  Job  Grantley  and  Antony;  and  in 


3i6  ANTONY  GRA Y, -GARDENER 

the  third  place  there  would  be  his  amazement  and 
discomfiture  combined  when  he  found  that  Nicho- 
las was  not  the  doddering  old  ass  he  had  taken  him 
for,  but  a  man  prepared  to  take  matters  into  his 
own  hands,  and  put  a  stop  once  and  for  all  to  a 
long  system  of  tyranny. 

"Yes  sir,  a  man,  and  not  the  crippled  fool  you 
have  taken  me  for,"  Nicholas  heard  himself  say- 
ing.    He  chuckled  at  the  thought. 

And  then  he  sat  upright.  What  need  to  wait 
till  the  morrow  for  that  interview?  It  was 
barely  lunch  time.  A  message  to  Antony  request- 
ing his  presence  at  two  o'clock,  another  to  Mr. 
Curtis  requesting  his  an  hour  later,  and  the  game 
could  be  begun  immediately. 

Once  more  Nicholas  chuckled.  Then  he  pressed 
the  electric  button  attached  to  the  arm  of  his 
chair. 

For  once,  and  once  only,  in  the  long  course 
of  his  butlership  did  the  placid  and  unmoved  calm 
of  his  manner  entirely  desert  Jessop.  The  occa- 
sion was  the  present  one. 

He  was  in  the  pantry  cleaning  silver,  when 
the  whirr  of  the  electric  bell  just  above  his  head 
broke  the  silence.  He  put  down  the  spoon  he 
was  poUshing,  discarded  his  green  baize  apron, 
donned  his  coat,  and  made  his  dignified  way  to  the 
library. 

Nicholas  looked  up  at  his  entrance. 

Accustomed  to  note  every  slightest  variance 


TRIX  TRIUMPHANT  317 

in  his  master's  moods,  Jessop  was  at  once  aware  of 
something  unusual  in  his  bearing.  There  was  an 
odd,  suppressed  excitement ;  the  nonchalance  of  his 
manner  was  unquestionably  assimied 

"Ah,  Jessop,  I  rang." 

"Yessir, "  said  Jessop,  imperturbably,  as  who 
should  say,  "Naturally,  since  I  have  answered 
the  summons. " 

Nicholas  cleared  his  throat. 

"Er — ^Jessop,  you  can  bring  Michael  Field  here 
at  two  o'clock  this  afternoon,  when  he  returns  from 
his  dinner.  You  can  also  let  Mr.  Curtis  know  that 
he  is  to  be  here  at  three  o'clock.  You  had  better 
go  to  Byestry  and  give  the  message  yourself.  If  he 
wishes  to  know  by  whose  orders,  you  need  men- 
tion no  names,  but  merely  say  that  orders  have 
been  given  you  to  that  effect.  I  fancy  curiosity 
will  bring  him,  even  if  he  resents  the  non-mention 
of  actual  authority. " 

Jessop  stared,  actually  stared,  a  prolonged, 
amazed  survey  of  his  master's  face. 

"You  are  seeing  them,  sir!"  he  gasped. 

For  a  moment  testiness  swung  to  the  fore  at 
the  question.  Then  the  amazement  on  Jessop's 
face  unloosed  his  sense  of  humour. 

"Yes,"  said  Nicholas  quietly. 

"But — "  began  Jessop.  His  mind  was  in  a 
chaos.  The  order  was  so  utterly  unexpected. 
There  were  at  least  a  million  things  he  wished 
to  point  out,  but  the  only  one  on  which  his  brain 
would  focus  was  the  fact  that  if  these  men  saw 


3i8  ANTON  Y'J3RAY,-CARDENER 

Nicholas,  they  wotdd  no  longer  imagine  him  to  be 
dead.  And  yet  that  fact  was  so  obvious,  it  was 
evident  it  must  have  occurred  to  Nicholas's  own 
mind. 

' '  Don't  try  to  think, "  remarked  Nicholas  grimly, 
"merely  obey  orders." 

The  words  pricked,  restoring  Jessop's  balance. 
He  drew  himself  to  rigid  attention,  the  mask 
suddenly  resumed. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  and  Jessop  left  the  room. 

"What  the  blue  blazes!"  he  muttered,  as  he 
returned,  almost  stumbling,  towards  the  pantry. 

The  expression  had  belonged  to  the  youthful 
Nicholas.  Jessop  borrowed  it  only  at  moments 
of  the  severest  stress.    It  was  borrowed  now. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

AN  OLD  MAN  TELLS  HIS   STORY 

Antony  did  not  in  the  least  understand  Jessop's 
request  to  follow  him  to  the  Ubrary,  when  he 
returned  from  his  midday  meal.  He  imagined 
that  there  was  some  job  which  required  doing,  and 
that  Jessop  was  regarding  him  in  the  light  of  a 
handy  man.  Anyhow  Antony  followed  him  good- 
humoiu-edly  enough,  and  not  without  a  certain 
degree  of  curiosity.  The  big,  silent  house  had 
always  exercised  an  odd  fascination  over  him, 
and  he  had  more  than  once  had  a  strong  desire 
to  set  foot  within  its  walls.  He  experienced  an 
almost  tmconscious  excitement  in  complying  with 
the  order. 

He  followed  Jessop  up  the  steps,  and  through 
the  big  door.  Facing  him  were  wide  shallow  oak 
stairs,  uncovered  and  poUshed.  Great  Turkish 
rugs  lay  on  the  hall  floor;  two  huge  palms  in  big 
Oriental  pots  stood  at  either  side  of  the  stairs; 
hunting  crops  and  antlers  adorned  the  walls. 
Jessop  opened  a  door  on  the  right.  Almost  before 
Antony  had  reaUzed  what  was  happening,  the 

319 


320       ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

butler  had  withdrawn  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him. 

Antony  half  turned  in  amazement  towards  the 
door. 

"Ahem!" 

With  a  start  Antony  turned  back  into  the 
room.  It  was  not  empty,  as  he  had  imagined  it  to 
be.  A  white-haired,  black-eyed  man  was  sitting 
in  a  big  oak  chair,  his  colourless  hands  resting  on 
the  arms. 

"Well?"  said  the  man. 

Memory  surged  over  Antony  in  a  flood.  Altera- 
tion there  unquestionably  was  in  the  crippled  form 
before  him,  but  the  black  piercing  eyes  were 
tmchanged.  The  suddenness  of  his  stuprise  made 
his  brain  reel.  He  put  out  his  hand  towards  the 
back  of  a  chair  to  steady  himself. 

"So  you  know  me,  Antony  Gray,"  came  the 
mocking  old  voice. 

"Nicholas  Danver, "  Antony  heard  himself 
saying,  though  he  hardly  realized  he  was  speaking 
the  words. 

"Exactly,"  smiled  Nicholas,  "not  dead,  but 
very  much  alive,  though  not — "  he  glanced  down 
at  his  helpless  legs, — "precisely  what  you  might 
term  kicking. " 

Antony  drew  a  deep  breath.  What  in  the 
name  of  wonder  did  this  astoimding  drama 
portend? 

"Sit  down,"  said  Nicholas  shortly,  pointing 
to  a  chair.     "I  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  you. 


AN  OLD  MAN  TELLS  HIS  STORY      321 

You  would  be  tired  of  standing  before  I  have 
done." 

Antony  sat  down.  The  Arabian  Nights  enter- 
tainment sensation  he  had  formerly  experienced 
in  the  oflBces  of  Messrs.  Parsons  and  Glieve,  rushed 
upon  him  with  an  even  fuller  force;  yet  here  the 
lighter  and  almost  humorous  note  was  lacking. 
Something  tinged  with  resentment  had  taken  its 
place.  He  felt  himself  to  have  been  trapped, ! 
befooled,  though  he  had  not  yet  fully  grasped  the 
manner  of  the  befooling. 

"I  was  a  friend  of  yoiu-  father,"  said  Nicholas 
abruptly. 

The  story  would  not  be  told  exactly  as  he  had 
told  it  to  Trix,  though  the  difference  in  the  telling 
would  be  largely  unconscious.  It  would  deal  more 
with  the  surface  of  things,  and  less  with  the  iimer 
trend  of  thought,  the  telling  of  which  had  been 
drawn  from  him  by  her  luispoken  sympathy. 

"I  know,"  said  Antony  quietly,  in  answer  to, 
the  remark. 

"Also  I  met  you  once,"  said  Nicholas,  a  Httle^ 
reminiscent  smile  dawning  in  his  eyes.     It  had  an 
oddly  softening  effect  upon  his  rather  carven  face. 
For  the  moment  he  looked  almost  youthful. 

"I  remember,"  replied  Antony  gravely. 

"Do  you?"  said  Nicholas,  the  smile  finding 
its  way  to  his  lips.  "What  a  determined  young- 
ster you  were!  'I've  got  to.  I've  begun!"* 
Nicholas  threw  back  his  head  with  a  laugh.  "It 
appealed  to  me,  did  that  sentiment.     I  saw  the 


S22  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

bulldog  grip  in  it.  But  there  was  no  viciousness 
in  the  statement.  Jove!  you  weren't  even  angry. 
You  were  as  cool  as  a  cucumber  in  your  mind, 
though  your  cheeks  were  crimson  with  the  effort. 
You  succeeded,  too.  I  had  forgotten  the  whole 
business  till  last  March.  Then  it  came  back  to 
me.  I've  got  to  tell  you  the  story  to  explain 
matters.  It  is  only  fair  that  you  should  know 
the  ins  and  outs  of  this  business.  I  have  no  doubt 
it  seems  pretty  queer  to  you?"     Nicholas  paused. 

"I  confess  I  am  somewhat  at  a  loss  regarding 
it,"    returned   Antony   dryly. 

"Not  over-pleased,"  muttered  Nicholas  in- 
wardly. Aloud  he  said,  "I've  no  doubt  you  will 
think  it  all  a  sort  of  fool  show,  and  I  am  by  no 
means  sure  that  I  don't  regard  it  in  something  that 
fashion  myself  now.  However — "  Nicholas 
cleared  his  throat.  "Since  my  accident  on  the 
hunting  field  I  have  seen  no  one.  I  had  no  desire 
to  have  a  lot  of  gossipping  women  and  old  fool  men 
around.  I  hate  their  cackle.  I  left  the  manage- 
ment of  the  estate  to  Standing,  my  agent.  When 
he  left — ^he  got  the  offer  of  a  post  on  Lord  Sin- 
clair's estate — Spencer  Curtis  took  his  place. 
He  had  to  report  to  me,  and  I  saw  that  he  kept 
things  going  all  right.  He  was  not  an  easy  man  to 
the  tenants,  but  I  did  not  particularly  want  a 
softling,  you  understand.  Last  March  one  of  the 
tenants — ^Job  Grantley,  you  know  him — sneaked 
up  here.  It  had  been  a  vile  day.  He  was  in 
difficulties  as  to  his  rent,  and  Curtis  was  putting 


AN  OLD  MAN  TELLS  HIS  STORY      323 

the  pressure  on.  He  had  a  fancy  for  squeezing 
those  who  couldn't  retaUate,  I  suppose.  Dirty 
hound!" 

Antony  made  a  Httle  soimd  indicative  of  entire 
assent.     He  was  becoming  interested  in  the  recital.  ^ 

"I  learnt  a  little  more  about  him,"  went  on 
Nicholas  smiling  thoughtfully,  "though  he  never 
guessed  I  made  any  enquiries.  That  was  later. 
At  the  moment  Job  Grantley's  tale  was  enough 
for  me, — that,  and  something  else  he  chanced  to 
say.  After  he  had  gone  I  sat  thinking,  first  of  past 
days,  then  of  the  future.  A  distant  cousin  was 
heir  to  the  property,  a  fellow  to  whom  Ctu-tis 
would  have  been  a  man  after  his  own  heart.  I'd 
never  had  what  you  might  precisely  term  a  feeling 
of  bosom  friendship  towards  William  Gateley. 
Oddly  enough,  you  came  into  my  mind  at  the 
moment.  I  remembered  the  whole  scene  on  the 
moorland.  I  could  not  get  away  from  the  mem- 
ory. Then  the  thought  flashed  into  my  mind  to 
make  you  my  heir.  It  seemed  absurd,  but  it 
remained  a  fixture,  nevertheless.  The  main  thor- 
oughly reasonable  objection  was  that  I  knew 
exceedingly  Httle  about  you.  The  child  is  not 
always  father  to  the  man.  Fate  takes  a  hand  in 
the  after  moulding  at  times.  Yet  if  it  were  not 
you  it  would  be  Gateley.  That,  at  all  events,  was 
my  decision.  Then  I  conceived  the  notion  of 
making  you  live  as  one  of  the  labourers  on  the 
estate,  in  short  of  giving  you  some  first-hand  know- 
ledge of  a  labourer's  method  of  living,  and  incident- 


324  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

ally  of  the  tenderness  of  Curtis.  Do  you  follow 
me?" 

Antony  nodded,  an  odd  smile  on  his  lips.  He 
remembered  his  own  conjecture,  suggested  by  Mr. 
Albert  George's  discourse.  The  education  was 
absolutely  unnecessary. 

"I  fancied,"  went  on  Nicholas,  "that  it  might 
teach  you  to  be  more  considerate  if  you  had  any 
tendencies  in  an  opposite  direction.  But — "  he 
paused  a  moment,  then  smiled  grimly, — "well, 
you  may  as  well  have  the  truth  even  if  it  is  slightly 
unpalatable,  and  you  can  remember  that  I  did  not 
know  you  as  a  man.  I  was  not  sure  of  you.  If 
you  had  known  I  was  up  here,  and  you  had  got 
an  inkling  of  the  game  I  was  playing,  what  was  to 
prevent  you  from  plajdng  your  own  game  for 
the  year,  I  argued,  in  fact  pretending  to  a  sym- 
pathy with  the  tenants  which  you  did  not  feel.  I 
have  never  had  the  highest  opinion  of  human 
nature.  On  that  account  I  conceived  the  idea 
of  dying.  It  was  easily  carried  out.  The  folk 
around  were  amazingly  giillible;  the  report  spread 
like  wild-fire, — through  the  village,  that  is  to  say. 
I  don't  for  a  moment  suppose  it  went  much  beyond 
it.  The  soUcitors  were  in  our  confidence,  and  no 
obituary  notice  appeared  in  the  papers.  The 
villagers  were  not  likely  to  notice  the  omission. 
Gateley  is  in  Australia.  Yes;  it  was  easy  enough 
to  manage.  But  I  see  the  weakness  in  the  business 
now.  You  might  quite  well  have  imagined  Hilary 
to  be  the  watch-dog,  and  have  played  yoiu*  game  to 


AN  OLD  MAN  TELLS  HIS  STORY      325 

him,  and  if  I'd  died  suddenly  before  the  year  was 
up,  and  you  had  disclosed  your  true  hand,  matters 
would  not  have  been  as  I  had  intended  them 
to  be.  It  was  a  mad  idea,  I  have  no  doubt,  though' 
on  the  whole  I  am  not  siu-e  that  it  wasn't  its  very 
madness  that  most  appealed  to  me. "    He  stopped. 

"And  what, "  said  Antony,  "is  to  be  the  outcome 
of  this  confidence  now?"  There  was  a  certain 
stiffness  in  the  question.  The  odd  feeling  of  resent- 
ment was  returning.  He  suddenly  saw  the  whole 
business  as  a  stupid  child's  game,  a  game  in  which 
he  had  given  his  word  of  honour  with  no  smallest 
advantage  to  any  single  human  being,  and  with 
quite  enormous  disadvantages  to  himself. 

"The  main  outcome,"  said  Nicholas,  "is  that  I 
wish  to  offer  you — Antony  Gray — the  post  of  agent 
on  my  estate  for  the  remainder  of  my  lifetime.  At 
my  death  the  will  I  have  already  drawn  up  holds 
good.  The  year's  probation  for  you  therein  men- 
tioned is  not  likely  to  be  long  exceeded,  even  if  it  is 
exceeded  at  all.  At  least  such  is  Doctor  Hilary's 
opinion." 

There  was  a  silence.  Nicholas  was  watching 
Antony  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows.  The 
man  was  actually  hesitating,  debating!  What  in 
the  name  of  wonder  did  the  hesitation  mean? 
Siirely  the  offer  of  the  post  of  agent  was  infinitely 
preferable  to  that  of  under-gardener  ?  If  the  latter 
had  been  accepted,  why  on  earth  should  there  be 
hesitation  regarding  the  former?  So  marvelled 
Nicholas,  having,  of  course,  no  clue  to  the  inner 


326  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

workings  of  Antony's  mind.  And  even  if  he  had 
had,  the  workings  would  have  appeared  to  him 
illogical  and  unreasonable.  It  is  truly  not  fully 
certain  whether  Antony  understood  them  himself. 
He  only  knew  that  whereas  it  would  be  possible, 
though  difficult,  for  him  to  remain  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Duchessa  as  Michael  Field, 
gardener,  to  remain  as  Antony  Gray,  gentleman, 
appeared  to  him  to  be  impossible;  though  precisely 
why  it  should  be,  he  could  not  well  have  explained 
to  himself. 

"I  should  prefer  to  decline  the  offer,"  replied 
Antony  quietly. 

Nicholas's  face  fell.  He  was  blankly  disap- 
pointed, as  blankly  disappointed  as  a  child  at  the 
sudden  frustration  of  some  cherished  scheme.  In 
twenty  minutes  Spencer  Curtis,  agent,  would  be 
blandly  entering  the  library,  and  there  would 
be  no  coup  de  thedtre,  such  as  Nicholas  had  pic- 
tured, to  confront  him. 

"May  I  ask  the  reason  for  your  refusal?"  ques- 
tioned Nicholas,  his  utter  disappointment  lending 
a  flat  hardness  to  his  voice. 

Antony  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Merely  that  I  prefer  to  refuse,"  he  answered. 

Nicholas's  mouth  set  in  grim  lines.  His  tem- 
per, never  a  very  equable  commodity,  got  the 
better  of  his  diplomacy. 

"It  is  always  possible  for  me  to  alter  my  will," 
he  remarked  suavely. 

Antony  flashed  round  on  him. 


AN  OLD  MAN  TELLS  HIS  STORY      327 

*'For  God's  sake  alter  it,  then,"  he  cried. 
*'The  most  fool  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life  was  to 
fall  in  with  your  mad  scheme.  Write  to  your 
solicitors  at  once. "     He  made  for  the  door. 

*  *  Stop, ' '  said  Nicholas. 

Antony  halted  on  the  threshold.  He  was  furious 
at  the  situation. 

"I  have  no  intention  of  altering  my  will," 
said  Nicholas,  "I  should  Uke  you  clearly  to  under- 
stand that.  I  intend  to  abide  by  my  part  of  the 
contract  whether  you  do  or  do  not  now  see  fit  to 
abide  by  your  own. " 

Antony  hesitated.  The  statement  had  taken 
him  somewhat  by  surprise. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded. 

"Precisely    what    I    say,"    retorted    Nicholas. 
* '  I  have  made  you  my  heir,  and  I  have  no  intention  ' 
of  revoking  that  decision.     You  agreed  to  work  for 
me  for  a  year.     You  can  break  your  contract  if 
you  choose.     I  shall  not  break  mine. " 

"I  can  refuse  the  inheritance,"  said    Antony. 

Nicholas  laughed.  "If  you  choose  to  shirk 
responsibility  and  see  the  tenants  remain  the 
victims  of  Curtis's  tenderness,  you  can  do  so. 
You  have  had  experience  of  his  ideas  of  fair  play, 
and  let  me  tell  you  that  your  experience  has  been 
of  a  remarkably  mild  order. " 

"You  can  choose  another  agent,"  said  Antony 
shortly. 

"/  can,"  said  Nicholas,  with  emphasis  on  the 
first  word.     "But  I  fancy  William  Gateley  will 


33«  ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

find  a  twin  to  Curtis  on  my  demise  if  you  refuse 
the  inheritance. " 

Once  more  Antony  hesitated. 

"Find  another  heir,  then,"  he  announced  after 
a  moment. 

Nicholas  shook  his  head.  "You  hardly  encour- 
age me  to  do  so.  My  present  failure  appears  so 
palpable,  I  am  not  very  likely  to  make  a  second 
attempt  in  that  direction." 

Again  there  was  a  silence.  Antony  moved 
further  back  into  the  room. 

"You  rather  force  my  hand,"  he  said  coldly. 

"You  mean  you  accept  the  inheritance?"  asked 
Nicholas  eagerly.  His  eagerness  was  almost  too 
blatant. 

"I  will  accept  it,"  replied  Antony  dispassion- 
ately, "and  will  see  justice  done  to  your  tenants. 
It  will  not  be  incumbent  on  me  to  make  personal 
use  of  your  money. " 

Nicholas  let  that  pass. 

"And  for  the  present?"  he  asked. 

"Concerning  the  matter  of  the  contract,"  said 
Antony  stiffly,  "I  would  point  out  to  you  that  I 
undertook  to  work  for  you  for  a  year  as  Michael 
Field,  gardener.  Well,  I  will  abide  by  that  con- 
tract, and  prolong  it  if  necessary. ' '  He  did  not  say 
till  the  day  of  Nicholas's  death.  But  Nicholas 
understood  his  meaning. 

"I  trust  you  consider  that  I  am  now  treating 
you  fairly, "  said  Antony  still  stiffly,  and  after  a 
sUght  pause. 


AN  OLD  MAN  TELLS  HIS  STORY      329 

Nicholas  bowed  his  head. 

"Fairly,  yes, "  he  said  in  an  odd,  almost  pathetic 
voice,  "but  hardly — shall  we  call  it — ^as  a  friend.** 

Antony  looked  suddenly  amazed. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded. 

"I  wanted  you  to  help  me  to  get  even  with 
Curtis,"  he  replied  regretfully.  His  tone  was 
somewhat  reminiscent  of  a  rueful  schoolboy. 

Despite  himself  Antony  smiled. 

"I  ordered  him  to  come  here  at  three  o'clock,  '* 
went  on  Nicholas,  glancing  at  the  clock  which 
wanted  only  five  minutes  of  the  hour.  "I  wanted 
to  give  him  his  conge,  and  introduce  him  to  the  new 
agent  at  the  same  moment.  He  believes  firmly  in 
my  demise,  by  the  way,  which  would  certainly 
have  added  zest  to  the  business.  And  now — well, 
it  will  be  a  pretty  flat  sort  of  compromise,  that's 
all." 

Antony  laughed  aloud.  For  the  life  of  him 
he  could  not  help  it.  And  then,  as  he  laughed,  he 
realized  in  a  sudden  flash,  almost  as  Trix  had 
realized,  the  odd  pathos,  the  utter  loneliness  which 
could  find  interest  in  the  mad  business  he — 
Nicholas — ^had  invented. 

Suddenly  Antony  spoke. 

"You  may  as  well  carry  out  your  original  pro- 
gramme," he  said,  and  almost  good-humouredly 
annoyed  at  his  own  swift  change  of  mood 

The  Hbrary  door  opened. 

"Mr.  Spencer  Curtis,"  announced  Jessop  on  a 
note  of  solemn  gloom. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  TRIFLES 

It  was  not  till  a  good  many  hours  later  that 
the  anticlimax  of  the  recent  situation  struck  Trix. 
Excitement  had  prevented  her  from  realizing  it  at 
first.  In  the  excitement  of  what  the  thing  stood 
for,  she  had  overlooked  the  utter  triviality  of 
the  thing  itself.  When,  later,  the  two  separated 
themselves  in  a  measure,  and  she  looked  at  the 
thing  as  apart  from  what  it  indicated,  the  ludicrous- 
ness  of  it  struck  her  with  astounding  force. 

Nicholas  Danver  would  give  a  tea-party. 

And  it  was  this,  this  small  commonplace  state- 
ment, which  had  kept  the  Duchessa,  Miss  Tibbutt, 
Doctor  Hilary,  and  herself  in  solemn  and  amazed 
confabulation  for  at  least  two  hours.  It  was 
infinitely  more  amazing  even  than  the  whole  story 
of  the  past  months,  and  Trix  had  given  that  in  fairly 
detailed  fashion,  avoiding  the  Duchessa's  eyes, 
however,  whenever  she  mentioned  Antony's  name. 
Yes;  it  waS  what  the  tiny  fact  stood  for  that 
had  astounded  them;  though  now,  with  the  fact 
in  a  measure  separated  from  its  meaning,  Trix 
saw  the  almost  absurdity  of  it. 

330 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  TRIFLES      331 

Fifteen  years  of  a  living  death  to  terminate 
in  a  tea-party! 

It  was  an  anticlimax  which  made  her  almost 
hysterical  to  contemplate.  She  felt  that  the  affair 
ought  to  have  wound  up  in  some  great  movement, 
in  some  dignified  action  or  fine  speech,  and  it  had 
descended  to  the  merely  ludicrous,  or  what,  in  view 
of  those  fifteen  years,  appeared  the  merely  ludi- 
crous. And  she  had  been  the  instigator  of  it,  and 
Doctor  Hilary  had  called  it  a  miracle.  Which  it 
truly  was. 

And  yet,  banishing  the  ludicrous  from  her  mind, 
it  was  so  entirely  simple.  There  was  not  the 
faintest  blare  of  trvunpets,  not  a  whisper  even  of  an 
announcing  voice,  merely  the  fact  that  a  solitary 
man  would  once  more  welcome  friends  beneath  his 
roof. 

The  only  real  touch  of  excitement  about  the 
business  would  be  when  Antony  Gray  learnt  the 
news,  and  he  and  the  Duchessa  met.  And  yet 
even  that  somehow  lost  its  significance  before  the 
absorbing  yet  quiet  fact  of  Nicholas's  own  resur- 
rection. 

"He  is  looking  forward  to  it  like  a  child," 
Trix  had  said. 

And  Miss  Tibbutt  had  suddenly  taken  off  her 
spectacles  and  wiped  them. 

"It's  an  odd  little  thing  to  feel  choky  about," 
she  had  said  with  a  shaky  laugh. 

Presently  she  had  left  the  room.  A  few  mo- 
ments later  Doctor  Hilary  had  also  taken  his  leave. 


332         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Trix  and  the  Duchessa  had  been  left  alone.     Sud- 
denly the  Duchessa  had  looked  across  at  Trix. 
v_"What  made  you  do  it?"  she  had  asked. 

Trix  understood  the  question,  and  the  colour 
had  rushed  to  her  face. 

"What  made  you  do  it?"  the  Duchessa  had 
repeated. 

"For  you,"  Trix  had  replied  in  a  very  small 
voice. 

"You  guessed?"  the  Duchessa  had  asked 
quietly. 

Trix  nodded.  It  had  been  largely  guesswork. 
There  was  no  need,  at  the  moment  at  all  events, 
to  speak  of  Miss  Tibbutt's  share  in  the  matter. 
That  was  for  Tibby  herself  to  do  if  she  wished. 

The  Duchessa  had  got  up  from  her  chair.  She 
had  gone  quietly  over  to  Trix  and  kissed  her. 
Then  she,  too,  had  left  the  room. 

Trix  stared  thoughtfully  into  the  fire.  Its 
light  was  pla3dng  on  the  silver-backed  brushes  on 
her  dressing-table,  gleaming  on  the  edges  of  gilt 
frames,  and  throwing  her  shadow  big  and  dancing 
on  the  wall  behind  her.  The  curtains  were  im- 
drawn,  and  without  the  trees  stood  ghostly  and 
bare  against  the  pale  grey  sky.  There  was  the 
dead  silence  in  the  atmosphere  which  tells  of  frost. 

It  was  just  that, — the  oddness  of  Httle  things, 
and  their  immense  importance  in  life,  and  simply 
because  of  the  influence  they  have  on  the  human 
soul.  It  was  this  that  made  the  fact  of  Nicholas 
Danver  giving  a  tea-party  of  such  extraordinary 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  TRIFLES      333 

importance,  though,  viewed  apart  from  its  mean- 
ing, it  was  the  most  trivial  and  commonplace  thing 
in  the  world. 

Trix  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  went  over  to 
the  window. 

Not  a  twig  of  the  bare  trees  was  stirring.  The 
earth  lay  quiet  in  the  grip  of  the  frost  king;  a 
faint  pink  Hght  still  lingered  in  the  western  sky. 
She  looked  at  the  rustic  seat  and  the  table  beneath 
the  lime  trees.  How  amazingly  long  ago  the  day 
seemed  when  she  had  sat  there  with  Pia,  and  heard 
the  little  tale  of  wounded  pride.  How  amazingly 
long  ago  that  very  morning  seemed,  when  she  had 
seen  the  sunlight  flood  her  window-pane  with  ruby 
jewels.  Even  her  interview  with  Father  Dormer 
seemed  to  belong  to  another  life.  It  had  been 
another  Trix,  and  not  she  herself  who  had  pro- 
pounded her  difficulty  to  him,  a  difficulty  so  as- 
toundingly  simple  of  solution. 

She  heaved  a  little  sigh  of  intense  satisfaction, 
and  then  she  caught  sight  of  a  figure  crossing 
the  grass. 

The  Duchessa  had  come  out  of  the  house  and 
was  going  towards  the  garden  gate. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

A  FOOTSTEP  ON  THE  PATH 

Antony  was  sitting  in  his  cottage.  It  was 
quite  dusk  in  the  little  room,  but  he  had  not 
troubled  to  light  the  lamp.  A  mood  of  utter 
depression  was  upon  him,  though  for  the  life  of 
him  he  could  not  tell  fully  what  was  causing  it. 
That  very  fact  increased  the  depression.  There 
was  nothing  definite  he  cotild  get  a  grip  on,  and 
combat.  He  was  in  no  worse  situation  than  he 
had  been  in  three  hours  previously,  in  fact  it 
might  be  considered  that  he  was  in  an  infinitely 
better  one,  and  yet  this  mood  was  less  than  three 
hours  old. 

Of  course  the  thought  of  the  Duchessa  was  at 
the  root  of  the  depression.  But  why?  If  he  met 
her  again — and  aU  things  now  considered,  the 
meeting  was  even  more  than  probable — what 
earthly  difference  would  it  make  whether  he  met 
her  in  his  r61e  of  Michael  Field,  gardener,  or  as 
Antony  Gray,  agent?  And  yet  he  knew  that 
it  would  make  a  difference.  Between  the  Du- 
chessa di  Donatello  and  Michael  Field  there  was 

334 


A  FOOTSTEP  ON  THE  PATH  335 

fixed  a  great  social  gulf.  He  himself  had  assured 
her  of  that  fact.  Keeping  that  fact  in  view,  he 
could  deceive  himself  into  the  beUef  that  it  alone 
would  be  accountable  for  the  aloofness  of  her 
bearing,  for  the  frigidity  of  her  manner  should 
they  again  meet.  Oh,  he'd  pictured  the  meetings 
often  enough;  pictured,  too,  and  schooled  himself 
to  endure,  the  aloofness,  the  frigidity, 

"I  rubbed  it  well  in  that  I  am  only  a  gardener, 
a  mere  labourer,"  he  would  assure  his  soul,  with 
these  imaginary  meetings  in  mind.  Of  coiu-se  he 
had  known  perfectly  well  that  he  was  deceiving 
himself,  yet  even  that  knowledge  had  been  better 
than  facing  the  pain  of  truth. 

But  now  the  truth  had  got  to  be  faced. 

There  would  be  the  aloofness,  sure  enough, 
but  there  would  no  longer  be  that  great  social 
gulf  to  account  for  it.  The  true  cause  would 
have  to  be  acknowledged.  She  scorned  him, 
firstly  on  account  of  his  fraud,  and  secondly  be- 
cause he  had  wounded  her  pride  by  his  quiet 
deliberate  snubbing  of  her  friendship.  Whatever 
justification  she  might  presently  see  for  the  first 
offence,  it  never  for  an  instant  occurred  to  his 
mind  that  she  might  overlook  the  second.  He 
had  deliberately  put  a  barrier  between  them, 
and  it  appeared  to  him  now,  as  it  had  appeared 
at  the  moment  of  its  placing,  utterly  and  entirely 
unsurmountable.  She  would  be  civil,  of  course; 
there  would  not  be  the  slightest  chances  of  her  for- 
getting her  manners,  but — his  mind  swimg  to  the 


336         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

Kttle  hotel  courtyard,  to  the  orange  trees  in  green 
tubs,  to  the  golden  sunshine  and  the  sparkle  of  the 
blue  water,  to  the  woman  then  sitting  by  his  side. 

Memory  can  become  a  sheer  physical  pain  at 
times. 

Antony  got  up  from  the  settle,  and  moved  to 
the  window.  Despite  the  dusk  within  the  room, 
there  was  still  a  faint  reflection  of  the  sunset  in  the 
sky,  a  soft  pink  glow. 

One  thing  was  certain — nothing,  no  power  on 
earth,  should  ever  drag  him  back  to  Teneriffe 
again.  If  only  he  could  control  the  action  of  his 
memory  as  easily  as  he  could  control  the  actions  of 
his  body.  At  all  events  he'd  make  a  fight  for  it. 
And  yet,  if  only — The  phrase  summed  up  every 
atom  of  regret  for  his  mad  decision,  his  falling  in 
with  that  idiotic  plan  of  Nicholas's.  And,  after 
all,  had  it  been  so  idiotic?  Mad,  certainly;  but 
wasn't  there  a  certain  justification  in  the  madness  ? 
It  was  a  madness  the  villagers  would  unquestion- 
ably bless. 

His  thoughts  turned  to  the  recent  interview. 
It  had  fully  borne  out  all  Nicholas's  expectations. 
Bland,  self-confident,  Curtis  had  entered  the  li- 
brary. Antony  had  had  no  faintest  notion  whom 
he  had  expected  to  see  therein,  but  most  assuredly 
it  was  not  the  two  figures  who  had  confronted  him. 
Bewilderment  had  passed  over  his  face,  and  an  odd 
undemote  of  fear.  It  was  just  possible  he  had 
taken  Nicholas  for  a  ghost.  The  reassurance  on 
that  point  had  set  him  fairly  at  his  ease.     He 


A  FOOTSTEP  ON  THE  PATH  337 

had  been  subservient  to  Nicholas,  extravagantly 
amused  to  learn  of  the  trick  that  had  been  played. 
He  had  been  insolently  obHvious  of  Antony's 
presence.  Antony  had  enjoyed  the  insolence. 
When  he  learnt  that  his  services  were  no  longer, 
required,  he  had  first  appeared  slightly  dis- 
comfited.   Then  he  had  plucked  up  heart  of  grace. 

"Going  to  take  matters  into  your  own  hands?" 
he  had  said  to  Nicholas.  "Excellent,  my  dear 
sir,  excellent." 

Nicholas  had  glanced  down  at  the  said  hands. 

"I  think,"  he  had  said  slowly,  "that  they  are 
rather  old.     No;  I  have  other  plans  in  view.'* 

"Yes?"  Curtis  had  queried. 

"I  wish  to  try  a  new  regime,"  Nicholas  had 
said  calmly.  "I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to 
my  new  agent. "  He  had  waved  his  hand  towards 
Antony. 

Black  as  murder  is  a  well-worn  and  somewhat 
trite  expression,  nevertheless  it  alone  adequately 
described  the  old  agent's  expression.  And  then, 
with  a  palpable  effort,  he  had  recovered  himself. 

"A  really  excellent  plan,"  he  had  said,  with 
scarcely  veiled  insolence.  "I  congratulate  you  on 
your  new  regime.  They  say  'Set  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief  * ;  no  doubt  '  Set  a  hind  to  rule  a  hind  *  will 
prove  equally  efficacious. "     He  had  laughed. 

"On  the  contrary,"  Nicholas's  voice,  suave 
and  calm,  had  broken  in  upon  the  laugh,  "that  is 
the  very  regime  I  am  now  abolishing.  'Set  a 
gentleman  to  rule  a  hind'  is  the  one  I  am  about  to 


338         ANTONY  GRAY.-CARDENER 

establish,  that  is  why  I  have  offered  the  post  of 
agent  to  Mr.  Antony  Gray,  son  of  a  very  old  friend 
of  mine." 

For  one  brief  instant  Curtis  had  been  entirely 
nonplussed,  the  cut  in  the  speech  was  lost  in 
amazement;  then  bluster  had  come  to  his  rescue. 

"So  you  have  had  recourse  to  a  system  of  spy- 
ing," he  had  said  with  a  sneer  that  certainly  did 
not  in  the  least  disguise  his  fury.  "Personally  I 
have  never  looked  upon  it  as  a  gentleman's  pro- 
fession." 

"The  question  of  a  gentleman's  profession 
is  not  one  in  which  I  should  readily  take  your 
advice,  Mr.  Curtis,"  Nicholas  had  replied,  smiling 
gently. 

Curtis  had  turned  to  the  door. 

**I  did  not  come  here  to  be  insulted,"  he  had 
said. 

"Neither,"  Nicholas  had  retorted  sternly, 
*'  have  I  paid  you  to  insult  my  tenants.  You  have 
accused  me  of  a  system  of  spying.  You  yourself 
best  know  whether  such  a  system  was  justified  by 
the  need.  Though  I  can  assure  you  that  Mr.  Gray 
was  no  spy.  He  believed  in  my  death  as  fully  as 
you  did." 

There  had  been  some  further  conversation, — 
remarks  it  might  better  be  termed.  The  upshot 
had  been  that  Curtis  was  leaving  Byestry  of  his 
own  accord  on  the  morrow;  Antony  took  over  his 
new  post  immediately. 

It  had  not  been  till  Ciutis  had  left  that  Nicholas 


A  FOOTSTEP  ON  THE  PATH         339 

had  broached  the  subject  of  the  tea-party  the 
following  day,  and  had  requested  Antony's  pres- 
ence. The  request  had  been  firmly  declined,  nor 
could  all  Nicholas's  persuasions  move  Antony  from 
his  resolution. 

"I  am  utterly  unsociable,"  'Antony  had  de* 
Glared. 

Nicholas  smiled  grimly. 

"So  am  I,  or,  at  any  rate,  so  I  was  till  Miss 
^  Devereux  took  me  in  hand. " 

"Miss  Devereux!"  Antony  had  echoed. 

"Yes,  she's  at  the  bottom  of  this  business,'* 
Nicholas  had  assured  him,  "though  what  further 
plot  she  has  up  her  sleeve  I  don't  know.  Why,  if  it 
hadn't  been — "  And  then,  on  the  very  verge  of 
declaring  that  Antony  himself  had  been  the  real 
foundation  of  the  whole  business,  he  had  stopped 
short.  Never  in  his  life  had  Nicholas  betrayed 
a  lady's  secret  or  what  might  have  been  a  lady's 
secret.  They  were  pretty  much  one  and  the  same 
thing  as  far  as  his  silence  on  the  matter  was 
concerned. 

Well,  the  long  and  the  short  of  the  whole  busi- 
ness was  that  the  tenants  of  the  Chorley  Estate 
were  about  to  receive  fair  play,  and  Nicholas  was 
about  to  emerge  from  the  chrysalis-like  existence 
in  which  he  had  shrouded  himself  for  fifteen  years, 
• — an  advantage,  certainly,  in  both  instances. 
Only  so  far  as  Antony's  own  self  was  concerned 
there  didn't  seem  the  least  atom  of  an  advantage 
anywhere.     Of  course  he  was  fully  aware  that 


340         ANTONY  GRAY, -GARDENER 

he  ought  to  see  immense  advantages.  But  he 
didn't. 

"It's  better  to  have  loved  and  lost  than  never 
to  have  loved  at  all, "  says  one  of  the  poets.  Was 
it  Tennyson?  But  then  that  depends  very  largely 
on  the  manner  of  the  losing.     And  in  this  case! 

Antony  crossed  to  the  dresser  and  lighted  the 
small  lamp.  He  had  just  set  it  in  the  middle  of 
the  table  when  he  heard  the  click  of  his  garden 
gate,  and  a  footstep  on  his  little  flagged  path. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX; 

ON  THE  OLX>  FOUNDATION 

Antony  stood  very  still  by  the  table.  Once 
before  he  had  heard  that  same  footfall  on  his  path, 
— a  Hght  resolute  step.  His  face  had  gone  quite 
white  beneath  its  tan.  There  was  a  knock  on  the 
door.  For  one  brief  second  he  paused.  Then  he 
crossed  the  room,  and  opened  the  door  wide. 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  the  Duchessa. 

He  moved  aside,  and  she  came  into  the  room, 
standing  in  the  lamplight.  He  stood  near  her, 
words,  conventional  words,  driven  from  his  lips  by 
the  mad  pounding  and  beating  of  his  heart. 

"Might  I  sit  down?"  asked  the  Duchessa  a 
little  breathlessly .  And  she  crossed  to  the  settle. 
Her  face  was  in  shadow  here,  but  Antony  had  seen 
that  it  was  strangely  white. 

Still  Antony  had  not  spoken. 

The  Duchessa  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  am  nervous,"  said  she,  an  odd  little  tremor 
in  her  voice. 

"Nervous!"  echoed  Antony,  surprise  lending 
speech  to  his  tongue. 

341 


342  ANTONY  GRAY —GARDENER 

* 'Nervous,"  she  replied,  the  odd  little  tremor 
still  in  her  voice.  "I  owe  you  an  apology,  oh,  the 
very  deepest  apology,  and  I  don't  know  how  to 
begin." 

"Don't  begin  at  all,"  said  Antony  hoarsely, 
sternly  almost. 

"Ah,  but  I  must.  Think  how  I  spoke  to  you. 
You — we  had  agreed  that  trust  was  the  very 
foundation  of  friendship,  and  I  destroyed  the 
foundation  at  the  outset." 

"It  was  not  likely  you  could  understand," 
said  Antony. 

She  caught  her  breath,  a  little  quick  intake. 

"Would  you  say  the  same  if  it  had  been  the 
other  way  about  ?  Would  you  have  destroyed  the 
foundation?" 

Antony  was  silent. 

"Would  you?"  she  insisted. 

**I — I  hope  not,"  he  stammered. 

"And  yet  you  appear. to  think  it  reasonable 
that  I  should  have  done  so." 

He  could  not  quite  understand  the  tone  of 
her  words. 

"I  think  it  reasonable  you  did  not  understand, " 
he  declared.  "How  could  you?  Nobody  could 
have  understood.  It  was  the  maddest,  the  most 
inconceivable  situation. " 

"Possibly.  Yet  if  the  positions  had  been 
reversed,  if  it  had  been  you  who  had  failed  to 
understand  my  actions,  would  you  not  still  have 
trusted?" 


ON  THE  OLD  FOUNDATION  343 

"Yes,"  said  Antony,  conviction  in  the  syllable. 
He  did  not  think  to  ask  her  how  it  was  that  she 
understood  now.  The  simple  fact  that  she  did 
understand  swept  aside,  made  trivial  every  other 
consideration. 

"You  mean  that  a  man's  trust  holds  good  under 
any  circumstances,  whereas  a  woman's  trust  will 
obviously  fail  before  the  first  diJQBculty?"  she 
demanded. 

"  I  did  not  mean  that, "  cried  Antony  hotly. 

"No?"  she  queried  mockingly. 

"It  was  not,  on  my  part,  a  question  of  trust 
alone,"  said  Antony  deliberately.  He  looked 
straight  at  her  as  he  spoke  the  words. 

The  Duchessa  dropped  her  eyes.  A  crimson 
colour  tinged  her  cheeks,  crept  upwards  to  her 
forehead. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.    Then 

"Will  you  help  me  to  re-build  the  foimdation?" 
asked  the  Duchessa. 

"It  was  never  destroyed,"  said  Antony. 

"Mine  was,"  she  replied  steadily.  "Will  you 
forgive  me?" 

"There  can  be  no  question  of  forgiveness,"  he 
replied  hoarsely. 

Her  face  went  to  white. 

"You  refuse?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  he  said. 

Again  she  drew  a  quick  breath. 

"There  is,"  she  said. 

"I  think  not,"  he  replied. 


344         ANTONY  GRAY,— GARDENER 

The  Duchessa  looked  towards  the  fire. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because,"  he  replied  slowly,  "between  you 
and  me  there  can  be  no  question  of  forgiveness. 
To  forgive,  one  must  acknowledge  a  wrong  done 
to  one.     I  acknowledge  none." 

She  turned  towards  him, 

"You  cared  so  Httle,  you  felt  none?" 

"No,"  responded  Antony,  the  words  leaping  to 
his  lips,  "I  cared  so  much  I  felt  none." 

"Ah,"  she  breathed,  and  stopped.  "Then  you 
will  go  back  to  the  old  footing?"  she  asked. 

Antony's  heart  beat  furiously. 

"I  cannot,"  he  replied. 

"Why?"  she  demanded,  speaking  very  low. 

Antony  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Because  I  love  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

Again  there  was  a  dead  silence.  At  last  Antony 
spoke  quietly. 

"Of  course  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you  that," 
he  said.  "But  you  may  as  well  know  the  whole 
truth  now.  It  was  because  of  that  love  that  I 
agreed  to  this  business.  I  had  nothing  to  offer  you. 
Here  was  my  chance  to  obtain  something.  I  had 
no  notion  then  that  you  lived  in  this  neighbour- 
hood. When  I  found  out,  I  was  tempted  to  let 
you  infer  that  there  was  a  mystery,  some  possible 
explanation  of  my  conduct.  It  would  have  been 
breaking  my  contract  in  the  spirit,  though  not 
actually  in  the  letter.  Well,  I  didn't  break  it 
at  all,  and  of  course  you  did  not  imderstand.  In 


ON  THE  OLD  FOUNDATION  345 

order  to  keep  my  contract  I  had  to  deceive  you,  or 
at  all  events  to  allow  you  to  believe  an  untruth. 
Naturally  you  scorned  my  deceit,  as  it  appeared 
to  you.  It  was  that  that  mattered  of  course,  not 
the  social  position.  I  imderstood  that  completely. 
Later,  you  offered  me  your  friendship.  You  were 
ready  to  trust  without  tmderstanding.  I  could 
not  accept  your  trust.  A  friendship  between  us 
must  have  led  others  to  suspect  that  I  was  not  what 
I  appeared  to  be.  That  was  to  be  avoided.  It 
had  to  be  avoided.  I  hurt  you  then,  knowing  what 
I  did. "    He  stopped. 

"  I  think  you  hurt  yourself  too, "  she  suggested 
quietly. 

The  muscles  in  Antony's  throat  contracted. 

"Come  here,"  said  the  Duchessa. 

Antony  crossed  to  the  hearth.  He  stood 
looking  down  at  her. 

"Kneel  down,"  said  the  Duchessa. 

Obediently  he  knelt. 

"You  are  so  blind,"  said  the  Duchessa  patheti- 
cally, "that  you  need  to  look  very  close  to  see 
things  clearly.  Look  right  into  my  eyes.  Can't 
you  see  something  there  that  wiU  heal  that  hurt?" 

A  great  sob  broke  from  Antony's  throat. 

"Ah,  don't,  dear  heart,  don't,"  cried  the 
Duchessa,  drawing  his  head  against  her  breast. 

"Will  the  new  agent  agree  to  live  at  the  Manor 
House?"  asked  the  Duchessa,  after  a  long,  long 
interval  composed  of  many  silences  though  some 


346         ANTONY  GRAY —GARDENER 

few  words.  "Will  his  pride  allow  him  to  accept  a 
small  material  benefit  for  a  short  time,  seeing 
what  a  great  amount  of  material  benefit  will  be  his 
to  bestow  in  the  future?** 

Antony  laughed. 

"I  told  Mr.  Danver  I  wouldn't  use  a  penny  of 
his  money  for  myself,"  he  said. 

" Oh! **  She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  half  comical 
dismay,  which  hid,  however,  a  hint  of  real  anxiety. 
Would  his  pride  accept  where  it  did  not  bestow 
in  like  kind?  For  other  reason  than  this  the 
bestowal  would  signify  not  at  all. 

"You  mind?**  he  asked  smiling. 

She  looked  straight  at  him. 

**Not  the  smallest  atom,"  she  declared,  utterly 
relieved,  since  there  was  no  shadow  of  false  pride 
in  the  laughing  eyes  which  met  her  own. 

"Ah,  but,"  said  Antony  slowly,  and  very,  very 
deliberately,  "I  never  said  I  would  not  use  it  for 
my  wife. " 


EPILOGUE 

An  old  man  was  sitting  in  the  library  of  the 
big  grey  house.  A  shaded  reading-lamp  stood  on  a 
small  table  near  his  elbow.  Its  light  was  thrown 
on  an  open  book  lying  near  it,  and  on  the  carved 
arms  of  the  oak  chair  in  which  the  man  was  sitting. 
It  shone  clearly  on  his  bloodless  old  hands,  on  his 
parchment-like  face  and  white  hair.  A  log  fire 
was  burning  in  a  great  open  hearth  on  his  right. 
For  the  rest,  the  room  was  a  place  of  shadows, 
deepening  to  gloom  in  the  distant  comers,  a  gloom 
emphasized  by  the  one  small  circle  of  brilliant 
light,  and  the  red  glow  of  the  fire.  Book-cases 
reached  from  floor  to  ceiling  the  whole  length  of  two 
walls,  and  between  the  thickly  curtained  windows 
of  the  third.  In  the  fourth  wall  was  the  fireplace 
and  the  door. 

There  was  no  sound  to  break  the  silence.  The 
figure  in  the  oak  chair  sat  motionless.  He  might 
have  been  carved  out  of  stone,  for  any  sign  of  life 
he  gave.  He  looked  like  stone, — ^white  and  black 
marble  very  finely  sculptured, — ^white  marble  in 
head  and  hands,  black  marble  in  the  piercing  eyes, 
the  long  satin  dressing-gown,  the  oak  of  the  big 

347 


348         j4NT0NY  GRAY,-CARDENER 

chair.'  *  Even  his  eyes  seemed  stone-like,  motionless, 
and  fixed  thoughtfully  on  space. 

The  big  room  was  very  still.  An  hour  ago  it 
had  been  full  of  voices  and  laughter,  amazed 
questions,  and  half -mocking  explanations. 

Later  the  front  door  had  banged.  There  had 
been  the  sound  of  steps  on  the  frosty  drive,  reced- 
ing in  the  distance.     Then  silence. 

Nicholas's  eyes  turned  towards  the  middle 
window  of  the  three,  surveying  the  heavy  hanging 
curtain. 

A  whimsical  smile  lighted  up  his  grim  old  mouth. 

"After  all,  it  wasn't  a  wasted  year,"  he  said 
aloud. 

Then  he  turned  and  looked  round  the  empty 
room.     It  seemed  curiously  deserted  now. 

"And  the  year  is  not  yet  ended, "  he  added.  He 
was  amazed  at  the  pleasiu-e  the  thought  gave  him. 


The  End. 


Jl:  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P,  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Cotnplet*  Catalo{(ue9  seat 
on  application 


The   Wiser  Folly 

By 
Leslie  Moore 

72°.     Color  Frontispiece.     $1 .25 


Readers  of  Leslie  Moore*s  **  Peacock 
Feather  "  will  find  in  this  new  book  a  story 
of  kindred  interest.  The  action  takes  place 
on  an  old  estate.  The  occupying  family 
holds  the  estate  as  the  outcome  of  a  series  of 
violent  happenings  in  the  past,  culminating  in 
a  written  renunciation  of  a  former  baronet. 
The  document  recording  this  renunciation 
has,  however,  been  lost,  "With  the  opening 
of  the  story,  there  steps  ui>on  the  scene  a 
descendant  of  the  man  who  made  the  re- 
nunciation, and  this  claimant  has  all  the 
necessary  proofs  of  his  kinship.  Disposses- 
sion of  the  family  seems  inevitable.  Out  of 
this  situation  the  author  has  developed  a 
romantic  tale,  with  many  pleasing  touches 
and  a  strong  love  interest. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The 
Stars  in  their  Courses 

By 
Hilda  M.  Sharp 

z2*.    Picture  Wrapper.    $1.50 

The  story  of  Patrick,  a  gambler  by 
inherited  instinct,  a  natural  fighter 
against  odds,  but  withal  a  strong  char- 
acter. Disinherited  by  his  father,  he 
stakes  everything  upon  a  gamble,  with 
his  own  reputation  as  the  stake — and 
loses.  This  novel  is  by  a  new  author 
who  has  a  fresh  viewpoint,  and  who 
portrays  with  unerring  skill,  in  a  very 
stirring  story,  the  characters  of  Patrick, 
his  smug  and  crafty  cousin,  and  the 
girl  they  both  love. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The 
Yeoman  Adventurer 

By 

George  W.  Gough 

12^    Color  Frontispiece.    $140 

The  hero  of  this  stirring  historical 
novel  is  a  young  Staffordshire  farmer 
who  is  plunged  headlong  into  a  breath- 
less whirl  of  strange  adventures  at 
the  time  of  "  Bonnie  "  Prince  Charlie's 
Jacobean  rebellion.  The  story  opens 
in  December,  1745,  when  the  rebellion 
was  at  its  height  and  Prince  Charles 
in  Derby. 

CL  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The  Beetle 

American  Edition  of  a  Story  as  Weird  and 
Awesome  as  "Dracula" 


By 
Richard  Marsh 

Z2^     $1.50 

**  It  is  a  book  to  be  read,  not,  maybe, 
when  alone,  or  just  before  going  to  bed, 
because  it  is  the  kind  of  a  book  which 
you  put  down  only  for  the  purpose  of 
turning  up  the  gas  and  making  sure  that 
no  person  or  thing  is  standing  behind 
your  chair.** — The  Graphic. 

"  A  story  of  the  most  terrific  kind  is 
recorded  in  this  extremely  powerful 
book.  The  skill  with  which  its  fan- 
tastic horrors  are  presented  to  us  is 
undeniable.'* — The  Speaker, 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


-r 


A     000  128  915     6 


